Now that Colin knew I was working for Greenwald, I didn't have to hide any of my books or keep my thoughts to myself.
He still grumbled, but he'd accepted—for the moment—that trying to come up with something to give the asshole to get him off our backs was the best option.
So when we'd gotten home and scarfed our giant sub sandwiches, I spread all the books out on the table and got back to work.
I made notes while Colin stepped outside and called his pack council; I hunted down references while he flopped on the couch and read the news.
The wind had picked up outside, and my apartment windows were all a little drafty.
Now and then a gust slipped through the cracks, making all the pages of my many open books lift and rustle in counterpoint to the knocking of branches against the kitchen window and the low whoo of the wind whistling around the corner of the apartment building.
Late-afternoon sunlight highlighted the gold lettering on the spines of some of the older volumes.
