Hope Between the Pages Pepper Basham (thriller book recommendations TXT) 📖

She blinked out of her stare to find him watching her.

“So, um, if he carried her photo, then they were definitely more than acquaintances.”

“And more than friends, I’d say.” His lips softened into that enigmatic crooked smile that said things her heart warmed to in response. “So, um, we can feel pretty certain that Oliver lived here, but a woman must have lived here too. At some point.”

She showed him the brush and the hatpin. Along with the blouse in the wardrobe, the existence of such a delicate tea set gave a few more hints. Had Sadie been that woman? Had Oliver been the sort of man who would have entertained other women in his little gatehouse? Had Sadie been one of many penniless lovers?

“Was Sadie the kind of woman who would have traveled from America to England at such a time in history without a certainty of a man’s affections?”

Max’s question bit into her thoughts as if he’d read them. Clara stared down at the photo, studying the tilt of the woman’s chin, the direct steadiness of her gaze. What little evidence they’d found paired with what she’d heard about Sadie her entire life offered a pretty solid guess. “I think that if she loved him, she was the exact kind of woman to leave everything for him.”

They searched for another hour before Max said he had to get back to his house.

“I have dinner preparations to make.” He stared ahead as he rode beside her, but she could hear the teasing in his voice.

“I hope you’re not expecting a whole bunch from your dinner companion. It’s been a long time since she’s been on a date.”

“The same could be said for her host.”

Which could make this night even sweeter, since they could both be awkward together. “Is it a dress-up type dinner?”

“Dress-up?” His gaze skimmed her attire as her skirt flapped in the breeze. “Don’t you always dress up?”

She exaggerated her eye roll for his benefit. “This is normal. I mean, nicer than normal.”

“Hmm…” He looked up to the sky, deliberately lengthening his response. “I’m making chicken merlot with mushrooms, salad, bread, and dessert. Do you think we should dress that up a bit?”

The man could cook? Like that? Clara nearly whimpered at the pure pleasure in the thought. Her cooking abilities leaned more toward Duncan Hines than Martha Stewart, so anything that didn’t come from a box or the freezer sounded positively candlelightdining-worthy.

“That sounds pretty fancy to me.”

“Fancy?” His brow rose with the turn of his lips. “Then dress-up it is.”

Clara smoothed her hair back from her face before knocking on Max’s door. She’d brought her favorite dress with her to England, just in case she needed something a little formal, and her mother always said the deep red, retro mermaid-style dress had a “glamorous” feel to it. Clara had even put a wave in her hair to get it to curl the right way so she could wear it down.

But now that she stood at Max’s door, she began to rethink her self-indulgence. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy looking like a 1950s spy, but some people had a difficult time dealing with her adoration for all things vintage.

The door latch clicked from the other side.

Oh well, there was no going back now.

The first thing she noticed was Max’s surprised expression, then the spatula he held in the air like the Tin Man’s oil can, and then her focus zeroed in on a paisley-print bow tie and a pair of black suspenders overtop his white button-up.

He wore bow ties? And suspenders?

There was a distinct possibility she was looking into the face of her future husband.

Neither moved, until the tension burst from Clara in an awkward laugh. “I love your bow tie.”

He absently reached up to touch his tie and then seemed to blink out of his frozen stance. “You…you look beautiful.”

And still he stood, spatula in hand.

She tucked her head with a smile, heat coursing from her neck to her forehead.

He blinked and then seemed to rally. “Oh, come in.” His gaze moved over her again and Clara barely kept her smile from taking over her entire face.

Maybe she should invest in spy clothes more often.

“Please, come in,” he repeated. He cleared his throat and gave his head another shake as if reorienting himself before leading the way into his kitchen.

The rich aroma—a mixture of savory and sweet—paired with a bow-tie-wearing man in the kitchen of an English cottage might have been one of the best experiences Clara had known up to this point in her life.

“It smells delicious in here.” She paused at the counter near him as he stirred something in the pot on the stove.

“Hopefully, it will be.” He grinned, his gaze catching in Clara’s again before he returned to his work. “If you’ll take this to the table, I’ll bring the plates.”

He placed a basket of warm bread in her hands and gestured toward the table he’d moved to the back of the cottage, where a set of French doors framed it.

And with that, they settled into their usual conversation, with a little bit of something else, like fairy dust, sprinkled in that shifted the relationship to something different. They spoke of their childhoods and educations—his in accounting and Clara’s in business—their mutual love for fantasy books, and Clara’s adoration of bookshops, in general.

“Accounting has worked out well to help Mum with the inn,” Max said, bringing small dishes of some chocolate confection to the table. “And it allowed me the freedom to indulge my hobbies of gardening and reading.”

“Gardening seems to be pretty relaxing for you.”

He took his seat and cast her a mischievous grin. “And all three, accounting, gardening, and reading, are excellent solitary activities.”

“Solitude is a beautiful thing in moderation. At present…” She raised a brow as she brought her chocolate-laden fork to her lips. “I’m very glad you are not interested in solitude.”

“So