2. TWO
TWO
Emily
The elevator accepted my keycard at seven fifty-two the next morning and carried me directly to the thirty-second floor without calling security.
I watched the numbers climb with growing suspicion.
For the past twelve days, reaching the archive had required the kind of verification normally reserved for nuclear facilities and suspicious international transfers.
My card opened the staff elevator between eight in the morning and seven at night.
Anything outside those hours triggered a call from security, followed by several minutes of polite confusion about why the temporary librarian wanted access to the books she had been temporarily hired to catalog.
Today, the elevator simply opened.
Alex stood on the other side.
He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and no jacket in sight.
The fabric stretched clean across broad shoulders and a lean, powerful chest, the open collar showing a sliver of tanned skin at his throat.
His forearms were corded, veins standing faintly against the muscle as he stood by the elevator.
His attention moved over me once, taking in my damp coat, the canvas bag on my shoulder, and the cardboard cup in my hand.
I let my gaze travel the same way—up the column of his throat, over the hard set of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, the dark brows drawn slightly together.
His eyes were cool, and for a second they held mine.
Something low and uninvited tightened in my stomach.
“You’re early.”
I stepped onto the floor. “You’re waiting beside an elevator before eight in the morning. I’m not sure you’re in a position to criticize anyone’s choices.”
“I wasn’t criticizing.”
“No. You were making an observation in that tone you use when you expect the rest of the room to defend itself.”
Alex reached for my coffee. I moved it out of range.
“This is mine.”
He pressed the lid down more firmly and handed the cup back without comment.
I looked at it, then at him. “Thank you.”
A slight nod. Satisfied, apparently, that he had prevented the first archival coffee disaster of the day.
The floor was quieter than usual. The main lights were on, but the eastern blinds remained closed, leaving the archive in a soft gray half-light. Rain ticked steadily against the glass.
Alex followed me to my desk. I set down my bag, opened my laptop, and waited. He stayed.
“Was there something else?”
“You arrived early.”
“We’ve established that.”
“Why?”
The honest answer was that I had slept badly after the rooftop party. Every time I closed my eyes I felt the exact placement of his hand at the small of my back. It had been a perfectly respectable touch—the kind used to guide someone through a crowded room without stepping on her shoes.
Except Alex Black did not touch people.
Everyone upstairs had known it. I’d seen the glances pass between the Sterling men and their partners the moment his palm settled against me. Nobody commented. That somehow made it worse.
“I wanted to finish the west cases,” I said. “You’ve been moving books when I’m not here.”
“I moved one.”
“You moved six.”
His face gave nothing away.
I took the folded list from my bag and placed it on the desk between us. “Volume twelve was returned to the wrong shelf. The Boswell letters were turned spine-inward. Someone removed three essays from the conservation cart.”
“I read them.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
I studied him. “Do you sleep?”
“Occasionally.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“You were awake.”
My hand stilled on the zipper of my bag. “How would you know that?"
“You answered Lola’s email at one fifteen.”
The club’s archivist liaison had sent a question about the founders’ register shortly after midnight. I’d replied because sleep had become unlikely, and because an email was easier to manage than wondering why a man I barely knew had followed me into a party he’d avoided for three years.
“You monitor Lola’s inbox?”
“No.”
“Then you were copied into the thread.”
“Yes.”
He said it as if there were nothing strange about tracking my email activity in the middle of the night.
I removed my coat and hung it over the chair. “Did you change my elevator access?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You waited for security last night.”
“Only for like eight minutes.”
“Nine.”
“Of course you counted.”
“It was unnecessary.”
“So is unrestricted access to the private floor of a billionaire who apparently keeps his sleeping habits classified.”
Alex’s gaze rested on my face. “You work here.”
“Temporarily.”
The word produced a subtle change in him. His shoulders remained still, his expression unreadable, but the silence grew heavier. I noticed because I had become far too good at noticing him.
“My contract specifies staff hours,” I continued. “It also specifies that any alteration must be approved by the archive liaison.”
“Lola approved it.”
“Before or after you told her to?”
He didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought.”
I turned on my laptop. Alex was still standing beside the desk when the screen lit.
“You can change it back if it bothers you,” he said.
It didn’t bother me, and that was the problem.
Being granted unrestricted access to one of the most private floors in Manhattan after twelve days should have felt reckless.
Instead it felt like Alex had noticed a minor inconvenience in my life and removed it before I thought to complain. I liked that more than was sensible.
“I didn’t say it bothered me.” I opened the catalog. “I said you should have asked.”
“Would you have agreed?”
“Possibly.”
“You would have asked twelve questions first.”
“Only twelve?”
His mouth moved slightly—the beginning of a smile that vanished before it could fully form. I caught it anyway.
Alex turned toward the windows.
“You should open those,” I said.
“The blinds?”
“Yes. Natural light will not instantly destroy the collection if we monitor direct exposure. More importantly, people work better when they can see evidence that the outside world still exists.”
“I work better without it.”
“You don’t count. You appear to regard the outside world as a persistent administrative error.”
He opened the blinds.
Morning spread across the archive, pale and wet. The city beyond the glass was blurred by rain, rooftops dissolving into low cloud. Alex stood against the light, watching me rather than the view. I looked down at the catalog before my body could interpret that too enthusiastically.
The private elevator opened again twenty minutes later.
Gerald Price stepped out carrying an umbrella and the kind of confidence that suggested he had never once been denied access to a room.
He was one of the club’s senior trustees and had already questioned my assessment of the archive twice. The first time he’d suggested rare books became more valuable when displayed publicly. The second, he’d called my preservation plan “rather cautious for someone so young.”
I was thirty-one.
Gerald looked from me to Alex. “Black. I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Alex’s gaze remained on the report in his hand. “You came to my floor.”
“Yes, well.” Gerald recovered quickly. “I need the Valenti manuscript prepared for Friday’s donor lunch.”
“No.” Alex didn’t look up.
Gerald turned to me, apparently expecting a more cooperative answer. “The display case will be in the south dining room. Four hours at most.”
“The Valenti manuscript isn’t stable enough to display in the south dining room.”
“It has been displayed before.”
“That may explain the fading along the lower illustrations.”
His smile became patient in the way men’s smiles often did when they intended to explain my own profession to me. “The donors expect to see something significant.”
“The manuscript is significant whether they see it or not.”
“I’m sure you understand that these events are important to the club.”
“I do. I also understand that the room has three west-facing windows and an open fireplace. Unless the donors are arriving in darkness and agree not to breathe near the case, I’m going to recommend a facsimile.”
Gerald glanced at Alex.
Alex had finally lowered the report. He looked calm, which I had learned meant someone was about to regret a decision.
“You’ve given the temporary archivist considerable authority,” Gerald said.
“I’m a librarian and collections specialist,” I corrected. “Archivists and librarians perform related but distinct jobs. In this case, however, I’m happy to exercise whichever title prevents you putting a fifteenth-century manuscript beside a bowl of soup.”
Gerald’s jaw went rigid.
Alex’s attention moved to me. There was something uncomfortably close to approval in it.
“The board approved the display,” Gerald said.
“The board approved a list produced before the collection was assessed. My report supersedes it.”
“Your report is advisory.”
“Not on this floor,” Alex said.
Gerald went quiet.
Alex set the papers on my desk. “The manuscript stays in the archive.”
“This is exactly why people find it impossible to work with you.”
“I don’t work with people.”
The answer was so perfectly Alex that I had to press my lips together.
Gerald looked at me, perhaps hoping to find an ally. “You find this amusing?”
“A little,” I admitted. “But I can select something appropriate from the club collection. The first-year guest register would work if we use a proper cradle and reduce the display time.”
“The manuscript is more impressive.”
“Only to people who judge books by the amount of gold on the page.”
Gerald stared at me for a long moment before turning toward the elevator. “Send the alternative list by noon.”
“I’ll send it by ten.”
The doors closed behind him. Silence returned to the floor.
I looked at Alex. “You enjoy making people uncomfortable.”
“Gerald arrived uncomfortable. He dismissed you.”
“I’ve been dismissed by more impressive men.”
Alex’s face hardened. The shift surprised me—I hadn’t meant anything beyond professional fact. Wealthy private collectors rarely enjoyed learning that money did not protect their books from humidity, gravity, or poor decisions.