Chapter 17
seventeen
Alice carries our small, individual pots of oolong tea to a circle of brown suede seats at the back of the bookshop.
She sets each on the table with care, hesitating while she tries to decide whether to put mine in the place next to her seat or across from it. In the end, I tamp down a smile and try to look casual about lowering myself in the seat perpendicular to hers.
The more time I spend around her, the less her little awkward moments of uncertainty bother me. Now, I realize, they are almost sort of… cute? Endearing. She clearly cares very much about pleasing the people around her, but often seems to have no notion of how to go about it.
Sweet. She’s sweet.
I pause, trying to decide on an approach.
The truth is, I have no idea why I’m here.
Sure, I guess I “needed” to check in with her this week as part of my work duties…
but that’s just an excuse. Because, in all honesty, when the security software in her laptop pinged, alerting me that it had been removed from her home, I leaped into action so fast, anyone observing would have thought there was a bomb threat.
I hated myself the whole ride over, wondering why I couldn’t just leave the damn woman alone. Knowing she’s been clear in her disdain for me… and having good reason for it.
Now that I’m here, though…
I’m not leaving.
Remembering the way she warmed under my praise back at her apartment, I find myself waiting until she settles herself and turns to me. When our eyes meet, I stare right into hers and speak with complete conviction. “This is lovely. You chose the perfect spot.”
Her posture changes; her back straightens, along with her neck. A pretty arc of milky white that leads up to her dimpled little chin.
Most of her features are rounded and soft, as if God drew her in circles and curves before carefully blurring the edges to add shading where her cheeks nip in.
Blonde hair bounces around her shoulders—windswept, this time, which only leaves it wild and even more appealing.
I wonder if the curls feel as smooth as they look. My fingers twitch against my legs.
As I push the idle thought aside, I blow out a breath and busy myself with pouring her tea, then my own. Trying my damnedest to come up with some pretense for sitting here with her.
Like she’s read my mind, Alice reaches into her bag and takes out a small paperback with worn edges. The front displays a detailed drawing of a man in a pirate’s costume. He’s half-naked, with long, flowing hair.
Alice’s cheeks blaze when she sees me looking at it, but the determined pout I’ve gotten so fond of appears on her lips. “I’ve decided to work later tonight. I’m just going to read now. So…”
You can leave.
She clearly expects me to be indignant, but my only reaction is a disconcerting burst of fondness. And… longing. Hell, when was the last time I sat and read with purpose instead of carving out time for it while chauffeuring Grayson?
I check my watch, noting that I have three more hours until he needs me at the office. Alice watches me shift and pull a small, thin paperback out of my back pocket. “Sounds great.”
Her wariness briefly morphs into disbelief. I swallow another smile, pretending to be engrossed in this week’s philosophy text. It was my father’s—a book by Kant I found when I was helping my mother pack.
After a long beat, Alice sighs and places her own book in her lap. She tosses me one sideways look, her pale brows lifting. As if asking, Seriously?
She doesn’t say the word, but I hear it in my mind, clear as one of her little squeaks. The question swirls in her eyes, filling the blue with something hesitant and fragile and… gorgeous.
My throat thickens. Worry coils tight around my insides, squeezing in a painful spasm.
Does she think I don’t want to be here?
I watch her, trying to read her emotions. Her gaze flickers, scanning something in mine. The corner of her rosy mouth wobbles slightly… and then she flings her focus away. To her paperback.
Jesus, this woman. I worry about her. For no fucking reason.
Gradually, her tension ebbs and mine follows suit. She turns a few pages. Contentment floats off her, filling the air between us. It seeps into my chest, easing some of my suffering as I settle back, stealing glances at her every few moments.
The fifth time I look up, my gaze sticks while she shifts to lie against the arm of her loveseat, blowing a few curls off her cheek. I stare, waiting. As if to prove a point, she turns another page and keeps on reading, engrossed in her story.
My focus still doesn’t return to my own book.
The sun shifts, filling the stained-glass window behind her with gold, silhouetting her with its glow. My brain crashes to a halt. My breathing stops.
Because she is breathtaking.
Like a Renaissance painting. All buttered light and flowing, untamed blonde and pale skin and curves—God—draped over the arm of her chair.
The more she relaxes, the more exquisite she appears.
And I know I should. But I can’t look away.
Two hours later, Alice huffs, setting her teacup in its saucer with a delicate clatter. “That’s ridiculous.”
I shrug, doing my best not to smile at her. “Kant didn’t think so.”
I never thought I’d see timid, mumbling Alice roll those gorgeous blue eyes at me. But the ice-and-violet orbs skirt toward the ceiling while she snorts. “Of course he didn’t disagree with his own theory,” she argues, neither squeaking nor stammering. “He came up with it!”
We’ve been at it for the better part of an hour, arguing circles around each other.
The conversation started when I set my book aside to pour each of us a fresh cup from the teapot.
Alice looked down at the page left open on the tabletop and stunned me when she recited one of Kant’s three fundamental questions.
My favorite one, naturally. Giving the impression, once again, that she sees far more than most others.
When I tried to offer a retort, we lapsed into a discussion of ethics and metaphysics. I was surprised when she tended to agree with me on most points. And oddly delighted when she put up a fight about transcendental idealism.
I mean, really. How many people even know what that is?
Not only does Alice know the theory, she knows her opinion and has a thoughtful argument for it.
Turns out we’re well-matched. Alice is as quiet and calm while we fight as she is when she reads. Aside from the occasional smirk or eyeroll, she keeps her tone diplomatic and listens carefully. She also has no problem offering concessions when warranted.
It makes me better. I listen harder. I think more carefully before I speak. By the time we work our way to the end of Kant’s published philosophies, I’m leaning forward in my seat with my forearms braced on my knees, totally invested in Alice’s every word.
She shifts from leaning on the right arm of her overstuffed chair to the left, leaving our faces only a few feet apart.
One of her curls keeps falling over her brow.
She blows it away a few times, but it floats back down eventually.
The fourth time it starts to fall, a smile I can’t quite hide curves my lips.
I nod while she continues, reaching over to carefully weave the single strand behind her ear.
There, I think, satisfied.
The hair is smooth. As soft as her earlobe and the patch of skin beneath it. When my fingertips trail over her pulse, it leaps.
Carajo.
I like her.
She’s smart. Kind and gentle and centered in a way I never expected. Now that I’ve seen her in her element, I feel a pang of concern when I remember how scared and scattered she seemed the last time I surprised her in a coffee shop. Her nerves must be as bad as her self-esteem.
I hate that thought. Viscerally.
And I want her to feel as interesting as she truly is.
“Well, you obviously know what I’m reading.” I shrug. “What are you reading?”
The pretty pink flush on Alice’s cheeks darkens along with her eyes. “It’s, um… it’s a romance novel?”
The squeak is back, I note. That fills me with equal parts shame and amusement. I hate that I made her self-conscious, but her cringe is cute. Does she think I’ll disapprove of her book?
A wicked thought tweaks my brows up. “Is it a romance novel or a romance novel?”
She sucks the corner of her lower lip between her teeth and peeps over it. “Both?”
Oh fuck. She sat next to me, reading smut, for an hour, and I had no idea? Why is that so hot?
I reach for my tea, needing an excuse to shift around and conceal the bulge now pressing into my fly. I keep my voice off-hand while I lock my gaze back on hers. “Anything good?”
The creamy skin of her throat tightens on a swallow. “I—y-yes, actually.”
Adorable. The urge to tease her bleeds into the thick pulse of arousal simmering at my center. I curve a brow and hold out my hand. “Give it.”
My favorite shade of roses-in-frost warms her chest as she inhales a sharp gasp. I don’t relent. My fingers curl, silently underscoring my order.
Alice extends the paperback to me. I turn it over, scanning the synopsis. Damn. It doesn’t look half bad.
I smile despite myself. “I’m intrigued.”
She wrinkles her nose and giggles, the sound sweet and tinkling. “You are?”
I nod, handing the book back. “Don’t tell anyone,” I warn, setting my face into a stern mask. “Or I’ll have to kill you.”
Her eyes drop to the Glock strapped to my hip. Her gaze goes wide. “Yes, sir,” she whispers.
Which does not help the state of my cock.
Thankfully, Alice’s focus doesn’t linger on my weapon. She meets my gaze. Expectant. Waiting for me to continue our conversation.
“Where would one find such a book?” I ask, sipping my tea. “You know, out of curiosity.”
That earns me another giggle. “Oh, you could just borrow one. I have tons.”
Her embarrassment catches up to her quickly. She slaps her palms over her cheeks while a fresh blush stains her skin. “I—I mean—”
My lips curl into a slow smile. Can I get her to tell me her favorite one? What is it about?
“Alright.” After making sure my erection won’t press right out of my pants, I push to my feet, knowing my alarm is about to go off. I have to go, but I refuse to leave without setting another date. “Would Friday night work?”
Alice blinks up at me, her lush pink lips forming a small “O” that teases my raging cock. Especially since standing beside her puts her mouth at just the right level for—
“For what?” she asks.
I realize she isn’t answering my thoughts this time—she wants to know what I want with her on Friday night. I clear my throat, slipping my Kant book into my back pocket. “To borrow one of your books.” And install the security cameras, limp-dicked landlord be damned. “Would that be good for you?”
She flounders for another moment. “G-good for me?”
My smile is entirely involuntary as I lean down and place my fingertips under her chin, closing her mouth before I do something impulsive like pressing mine over it.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Eight o’clock?”
She agrees, her reply no more than a slight quivering breath. “Okay.”
I don’t realize until I’ve left the shop and walked around the corner that I never asked about her work once.