Chapter 34 The Space Invader
He wasn't backing off. In fact, he leaned in closer.
My back was pressed so hard against the shelf that the edge of a hardcover book was digging into my shoulder blade.
I couldn't move. I didn't want to move. He was crowding me, his shoulders blocking the light from the aisle, effectively turning this little nook into a prison cell.
And, god, I hate to say it, but the guy was gorgeous.
I'm talking 'Hollywood A-lister being paid millions to brood on camera' gorgeous.
Up close, without the dim palace lights, I could see his face clearly.
Sharp jawline, eyes that looked like they'd seen too much, and that scar near his temple that just made him look even more dangerous.
If he walked into a coffee shop back in my world, he'd stop traffic.
, It was distracting as hell. I was trying to save my own neck, and meanwhile, my brain was busy noting his high cheekbones. Get a grip, Anna.
"You're not shaking," he observed, his voice barely a murmur.
"Should I be?" I shot back, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
He tracked my gaze. He was watching everything. Not just my eyes, but my throat, my hands, the way I was shifting my weight. He was reading me like a damn textbook.
"The Iron Pass," he said suddenly. "You mentioned supply lines and attrition rates. Where did a girl who spent her life picking out tea sets learn about military logistics? That's not 'reading history' talk. That's tactical analysis."
Crap.
I felt my heart skip a beat. Then, I realized his was beating too.
I could feel it through his coat. Or maybe I was just imagining it because we were standing so close I could practically count his eyelashes.
It was nauseating. My pulse was going wild, and for some reason, his seemed to be matching the pace.
"I just... I'm good at identifying workflow bottlenecks," I blurted out.
He squinted. "Workflow bottlenecks?"
I wanted to bite my tongue off. Nice job, genius. Throw in some MBA terminology why don't you.
"I mean," I scrambled to fix it, "I just understand how to streamline operations. When you have limited resources, like grain, or steel, or men, you have to maximize the output while minimizing waste. It's basic efficiency. It's not genius, it's just not being wasteful."
He stared at me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
He didn't look convinced. He looked like he was dissecting my soul.
The heat in the aisle was suffocating. I couldn't tell if it was the rain, the dusty bookstore, or the fact that he was towering over me like a predator who'd finally cornered his prey. My head started spinning. I was losing control of the conversation. I was losing control of the distance.
"You're weird, Ilse," he said, his voice dropping so low it was almost a hum against my forehead. "You're not the girl I remember. You're not even the girl from the palace. You're hiding something big, and you're getting sloppy."
His hand moved. He wasn't pushing me back, he was tracing the edge of the shelf right next to my cheek.
My skin felt like it was on fire where he touched the wood.
I panicked. Seriously, full blown, I might faint panic.
The walls of this aisle felt like they were closing in.
I could hear his breathing, steady and heavy, and mine, which was sharp and shallow.
"I have to go," I whispered, my voice sounding weak even to me.
He didn't move an inch. He just kept looking at me, waiting for me to crack. And the worst part? I was starting to think I might actually do it.