CHAPTER THREE #2
I’ve tried on every article of clothing I own, defiantly changing back into sweatpants between each discarded outfit.
I’ve refreshed Anna Matthews’s Instagram feed so many times I think I might break it. There are no new updates, nothing beyond those sly emojis and that taunting STAY TUNED …
“I’M TUNED,” I vaguely remember yelling at my phone. “I COULD NOT BE MORE TUNED!”
What happens if I don’t go? Will Jack and I keep crossing paths anyway? Will I ruin everything and incur the wrath of the Gifter and get turned into a chicken or something? Would life as a chicken really be so bad?
What if I do go? How do I prepare for a date that’s fictional but also real? What do I wear? Should I dye my hair? Cut it, at least. A rom-com heroine always has a cute little haircut.
“AAAH!” I shout at myself in the bathroom mirror as a fresh surge of lucidity reveals that I’m half a millimeter from severing a dark, wavy lock from my head. I fling the scissors into the sink and splash cold water on my face. Then realize I already put on makeup and will now have to redo it.
Well, that’s it. I’m not going. I can’t be expected to put on makeup twice.
I slide down my bathroom wall in anguish, thinking, Wow, this is so dramatic—I really am the main character. And it’s there on the tiled floor that I finally catch my breath and think things through.
As a rule, I do not let myself get this worked up over men.
But I’ve seen it happen. I’ve let friends cry on my shoulder in college dorm bathrooms. I’ve tried to talk Steph off the post-breakup-bangs ledge twice, then had to lie and tell her they totally work with her face shape.
And then there’s all of Mom’s romance advice—each piece a thinly veiled cautionary tale, like find someone who actually buys you flowers or if you have second thoughts at your wedding, don’t think, just run.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about real-life love, it’s that it ends.
Badly. Sure, I imagine it’s beautiful in its early days.
But then what? It’s not just that you end up alone.
I know alone; alone isn’t so bad. But once you add in the memory of what it was like to be in love in the first place, alone becomes lonely.
Or, you end up stuck with someone who makes you feel lonely anyway, which might be even worse.
But this thing with Jack … This can’t end that way.
This has an expiration date, a narrative arc with a promised conclusion.
Suppose I went to meet Jack tonight, gave in and let the story unfold.
All of those fictitious sweet nothings I’ve swooned over would happen to me.
It would be romantic and perfectly predictable, and then it would be over with no harm done.
Like a romance nicotine patch, or a thirty-day free trial that doesn’t require my credit card information.
I’d get to experience it all, just once, just to get it out of my system. Just to know what it’s like.
I’d never have to wonder again.
I stand up swiftly and march to the mirror to fix my makeup before I can lose my nerve.
I ransack my clothing piles for jeans and a tank and my favorite oversized blazer.
I shove the essentials in my pockets, not bothering with my bag or a proper coat, not letting myself think anymore, and walk out the door.
· · ·
I HALF EXPECT the library steps to be empty when I arrive. There I’ll be, stupid and alone, mortified by my own gullibility. And then Jack and the so-called Gifter and probably a camera crew will pop out laughing hysterically at what an idiot I am.
But when I turn the corner, there he is, just like he said he’d be. He’s leaning against one of the statues out front, his breath clouding in the air. He catches sight of me and waves, and that’s it. My last shred of doubt evaporates and a simmering giddiness takes over.
“Well, well, well,” he says as I approach. “If it isn’t Book Girl.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. If only he knew.
He pulls me into a casual greeting hug, and I’m certainly not trying to smell him, but I can’t really help it.
He smells like … well, I have absolutely no idea, but it’s good.
Kind of spicy? A little earthy? I’m suddenly eager to find out how Anna Matthews will describe it.
Her leading men always seem to be enveloped by scents like smoked cedar and sandalwood and warm flannel.
I break my train of thought and pull back from Jack before I start actively sniffing him. I need to be cool. I imagine this is a little like going out with your celebrity crush while pretending you’ve never had their poster on your wall.
“Where to?” I ask as breezily as I can. “Sushi? Indian? Weird artisan corndog place?”
There’s a glimmer of mischief in his eye as he reaches behind the statue for something. “Tempting,” he says. “But I had a better idea.”
“There’s a better idea than an artisan corndog?”
He grins that dopey grin at me and pulls out an old-fashioned picnic basket. Wicker and red gingham and all. “Up for a little adventure?”
Oh, he’s good. “Always,” I say.
He angles his head in invitation and turns up the steps, toward the dark library. The dark, closed, after-hours library. I’m beginning to wonder if he is the delusional one here when he pulls the facade’s iron grate door easily open, then knocks out a pattern on the glass of the inner door.
“I know a guy,” he says, flashing me a sly look. And the door groans open, pulled by a wiry, gray-haired man with a knowing smile and a BPL badge on a lanyard.
“Thanks, man.” Jack claps the guy on the shoulder. I wonder how much of a library regular you have to be to have an inside guy. Or is he a secret zillionaire? Is this one of those books?
As the library guy locks up behind us, I stare in awe at the grand entryway, shadowy and silent as a tomb. I’ve never seen it quite like this before. Jack comes to stand beside me.
“I love it here,” I sigh. “It’s like church for book people.”
“Mm.” I can feel his little hum of agreement like a balmy breeze over my skin. “Except I never had much chemistry with the people at church.”
“I can’t relate. Tween Roxie never met an altar boy she didn’t like.”
He smiles and bumps my shoulder with his, then directs me down the hall.
If I were under any illusions that this is real life, the sight awaiting us in the courtyard would scatter them to the wind.
A bistro table and chairs have been set up, a candle flickering in the center, a minimalist space heater off to the side.
With the upstairs lights off, the night sky seems to be rushing in to meet us.
Even for a romance novel, this is too perfect.
They never start out with a perfect date and continue seamlessly into a perfect relationship; there’s always a catch.
We’ll have a magical night and then I’ll start my next job and find out he’s the boss.
Or he might be a method-acting movie star, wooing me to prepare for a role but accidentally falling in love in the process.
One way or another, it all has to fall apart a little before it comes back together.
But damn, is it off to a spectacular start.
“We can go inside if it’s too cold,” Jack says. “We’ve got the whole place. But I thought this might be fun. I brought blankets, too.”
The air may be cold, but it can’t compete with the warm, glowy feeling settling over me.
“This is insane,” I breathe. There’s still a part of me that feels like I can’t accept this. Like it’s too costly a gift, and I should opt out now. But even if I wanted to, I don’t know if I could.
And also, I decide as he offers me his hand, I don’t want to.
“Shall we?”
I take his hand and answer, “Yes, I think we shall.”
· · ·
I’M BUZZY WITH wine and laughter as I defend Two If by Sea from Jack’s merciless critique.
“No, that’s the point!” I say. “It’s enemies-to-lovers. It’s all about how powerful it is when people fall in love having seen the worst in each other. Plus, it’s hot. There’s a fine, fine line between hatred and sexual attraction.”
We’re discussing an Anna Matthews novel, in an Anna Matthews novel. I don’t know how this is working, but I’m having the best time and I’m done questioning it.
Jack scoffs as he tops a cracker with Brie. “But there’s no way she didn’t realize she was falling for him. Not when she was always like, ‘Ugh, I hate that sexy smirk. I’m going to smack it off his face. With my mouth.’”
“‘I want to marry him just so I can ruin his life up close,’” I add, toasting the words with my glass. “That’s the good stuff right there.”
He laughs, then shrugs. “I just think there’s something to be said for showing someone you like them right from the start.”
I swallow a sip of wine, savoring the way it warms me from the inside out. “You mean like reading their favorite book in twenty-four hours so you can argue about it on your date?” His eyes flick to mine with an impish gleam. “Yeah, there is something to be said for that.”
He leans in and whispers, “I read it in ten.”
It strikes me then that all of this—the charcuterie, the candlelight, the mysterious late-night library access—pales in comparison to that one simple act.
Of course, being in such a magical place doesn’t hurt. I marvel at the courtyard’s luminous arches and pale stone walls, then turn back to Jack. “You said we have the whole place to ourselves?”
He nods. “Why? What are you thinking?”
I grin.
“When’s the last time you played hide-and-seek?”
· · ·
MY THOROUGH SWEEP of the top floor, though fruitless so far, is a thrill all its own.
Night transforms the library into a forbidden labyrinth, a catacomb of books and abandoned desks.
Streetlight spills in through high diamond-grilled windows, weaving through the shadows.
The drama is so palpable I could swim through it.
In the spirit of saving the best for last, I’m only now approaching the grand reading room in all its vaulted-ceiling glory. I hear a slight rustling from within and a quiver of anticipation ripples down my spine.
I open the heavy wooden door with a creak and step inside.
“Hellooooo …” My voice cuts through the quiet and bounces around the room, glancing off stately wooden desks and green reading lamps.
I trip on something as I step further into the room and squint in the darkness to find a book on the floor.
There’s another just beyond it. And another, and another—a trail of them, forming a meandering path to the alcove of carved wooden shelves that cordon off the far end of the room.
I follow the books to a shelf in the corner, where the moonlight illuminates several rows of uniform reference tomes—and one that’s not quite like the others.
It’s a paperback, wedged into the sturdy lineup, and I reach for it. Two If by Sea.
“Your hide-and-seek rule book is a lot more complex than mine,” I call out.
A gentle hand lands on my shoulder and I whirl around, startled and exhilarated.
Jack stands there like a sweater-clad library dream, the silvery light softening all his edges.
I’m not sure I can see his bashful smile so much as feel it.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I say. “You know, you were the hider. You weren’t supposed to find me.”
He steps closer. “Well, I’m glad I did.”
He backs me up to the oak shelves until the book spines are pressed against my own. My breath quickens as he plants his hands on either side of me, caging me in with a knowing smile. I’m certain he can feel my heartbeat vibrating the very little air between us.
“I’m glad you did too,” I say in a hush.
He leans in so slowly I can hardly stand it, but then the feel of his lips brushing mine is worth every bit of the agonizing wait.
He tips my chin up with a gentle hand and I reach up to pull him closer, deepening the kiss.
It’s a dark academia fantasy, pure magic jumping off the page and directly into my bloodstream.
I have never been kissed so thoroughly in my entire life.
The thrill of it darts through my entire body, nerves firing and misfiring like a game of laser tag.
I lose track of time, of space, of everything as his mouth claims mine again and again.
I lose track of myself. So much so that without warning, I do something so hopelessly cliché that I didn’t think it was a real thing: I go literally, physically weak at the knees. They give out entirely, in fact.
I slide down the bookshelf with a lurch that startles me into a laughing fit, a weighty thud echoing in my ears and vibrating against my back. And then there’s only silence. I look up at Jack.
His eyes are shadowed, looking down at me in what can only be described as disbelief.
My gaze follows the strong line of his neck, sweeps across his broad shoulder and along his muscled arm until I see his hand, clenched against the bookshelf above me.
And the knife it has buried there, exactly where my chest was half a second before.