Reborn Yesterday - Tessa Bailey Page 0,18
the couch cushions. It had been so long since she’d watched a movie with anyone, let alone a gorgeous man. “Here. This is where he sees her in the field…” She clutched a hand to her chest. “Look at his face. He knows he’s done for.”
When Jonas had nothing to say about the incredible scene, she looked over and found him watching her instead, lips parted slightly.
A shiver flew up her spine. The moment stretched, this timeless male on one side of her, the modern television on the other. “Does romance between two regular people seem pointless when they only live a short time and vampires have eternity?”
“No.” He gestured absently at the screen. “Regular is how it should be. The short time humans have is precious. It’s living for eternity that’s unnatural.”
“You didn’t choose to be a vampire?”
“I did, actually.” His fingers curled into his palms. “Everyone should be given a choice. Though choosing to become a vampire is always the wrong decision.”
His desolation made her wish to give him a hug, but suspected it wouldn’t be well received. “Surely there are some perks. When you have all the time in the world, you’re not under the human pressures. Get a job, get married, save for retirement, start a podcast…”
“You say those things like they’re terrible. Do you not want to…marry?”
“Sure. Someday.” Puzzling over his sudden frown, she sighed over the beautiful greenery on the television. “I’d rather travel, though. Have you been to Ireland?”
“Yes.”
Ginny gasped and melted against the arm of the couch. “Say the first five words that comes to mind when you think about it.”
“Damp. Friendly. Fireplaces. Beer. Wool.”
She laughed. “Where’s the best place you’ve been?”
“We’ve only been in Coney Island for a few weeks,” he said quietly, his regard sweeping her. “But it’s definitely a frontrunner.”
Because she was there? Surely not. Though his eyes suggested that’s exactly what he meant. Still…no. Couldn’t be. “Yes, the boardwalk is pretty great, even in the fall,” she said in a rush, narrowly resisting the urge to play with her hair. “Are you planning on staying long?”
“I don’t know,” Jonas murmured, a line forming between his brows.
Wait. Had he come closer?
Ginny looked down to find it was her that had scooted halfway across the couch. Flushing to her hairline, she reversed until her back met the arm of the sofa.
Jonas chuckled.
Desperate to pull the focus off her behavior, Ginny resumed watching the movie, though it was impossible not to feel Jonas’s attention locked on her. “My favorite line is coming up.”
“Don’t tell me. I want to guess.”
A smile stretched her mouth. “Okay.”
They watched in silence for a minute and just like always, Ginny got lost in the romance of the scene. The rain that lashed the windows of the small cottage, the music that swelled as the hero searched his house for the intruder. How he pulled his future wife up against his chest. “It’s a bold one you are,” Ginny whispered, in time with Maureen O’Hara. “‘Who gave you leave to be kissing me?’”
Several lines followed in the characters’ argument.
Then, “‘You’ll get over it.’” She dropped her voice several octaves. “‘Well, some things a man doesn’t get over so easy.’”
“That’s the one,” Jonas said.
Her mouth fell open. “How did you know?”
“I have my ways.” He raised a brow. “Why is that line your favorite?”
Ginny took a moment to think. “It’s nice, isn’t it? People acknowledging someone affects them, right to their face, instead of leaving them to guess.” Cursing her ability to make any situation weird, she wet her lips and went back to quoting the movie. “‘Like what, supposin’?’”
“‘Like a girl coming through the fields with the sun on her hair…kneeling in church with a face like a saint…’”
Ginny sputtered a laugh. “You have seen this movie!”
He winked at her. “Opening weekend.”
Thinking of him in an old-fashioned theater with red velvet curtains, she made a wistful sound. “Why did you pretend you hadn’t?”
“So I could listen to you talk about it.”
A fluttering weight dropped into her belly—and once again, she was halfway across the couch before realizing she’d moved. Drawn to him in a way that couldn’t be denied or explained. Slowly, like a middle schooler might do, she slid her open palm over the couch cushion toward Jonas, afraid to breathe, afraid he’d think it was a bad idea.
When he slowly lowered his hand to Ginny’s and knit their fingers together, cool twined with warm, electricity raced up her arm and Jonas’s nostrils flared. But he