Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
TYLER
Robyn shook her head. “I still don’t know what I’m going to do about my story.”
They were upstairs in Robyn’s loft, sitting cross-legged on the floor with their backs against the sofa because the tiny kitchen table had been commandeered by Isabel’s manuscript pages and Robyn’s notebook.
The flat was warm with candlelight and the lingering smell of browned butter and sage, and the windows had fogged at the edges from the cooking.
The pappardelle was extraordinary. Tyler told Robyn three times it was the best he’d ever had.
She tried to wave him away, but he saw the pleased blush on her cheeks.
He’d watched as she made it from scratch, rolling the pasta dough out on the counter, cutting it into thick ribbons, cooking it with roasted zucchini from his garden, cremini mushrooms, and a pinch of black pepper, before tossing them in browned butter and cream with a mountain of parmesan.
Tyler had eaten three helpings and was seriously considering a fourth.
Mr. Darcy was licking his paws on the cushion above them, feigning disinterest, when really he was patiently waiting for them to look away so he could try and swipe some of the white sauce from their plates.
“Give yourself time. The words will come,” Tyler said, pouring more wine for each of them.
Robyn’s wary gaze searched his. “I wish. It doesn’t work that way. At least not for me.”
Mr. Darcy, tired of subtlety, placed both front paws on Robyn’s shoulder and leaned his full weight forward, nose stretching toward her plate with brazen determination.
She looked over her shoulder at her kitty and scratched his ears before pushing him back. “You can’t have this. But I’ll give you a treat.”
Mr. Darcy sprang off her shoulder onto the ground at the sound of the magic word, and Robyn stood to get Mr. Darcy his promised reward.
Tyler watched Robyn walk to the kitchen, still thinking about how he could help. “Okay. Then we start with what we know.”
“Which is?” she said, bending down to give Mr. Darcy the treat.
Tyler tapped his fork lightly against the edge of his bowl, thinking. “You love crafting stories. You love bringing characters to life. You love writing tension and longing and those moments where everything changes.”
Robyn swallowed. Her eyes flicked away. “Not lately.”
Tyler stood and walked forward, meeting her at the center island. His voice dropped into something gentler. “You do. You just forgot how it feels because you’re terrified.”
Robyn let out a shaky breath. “You’re right. I am. It’s different now that people know who I am.”
“I can see that. But if you could let that fear go. If you could remember how good you are at this. I think you could get over this block of yours.”
“Okay, so how do I remind myself how good I am at all of this? I’ve already tried rereading past books and that didn’t help.”
“Well,” he said, and his smile turned a little sheepish, like he couldn’t believe he was about to say this out loud. “After dinner… I want to try something with you. Something fun. Low stakes.”
Robyn’s cheeks heated instantly, like her body understood before her brain did. “Tyler.”
He lifted both hands. “Hear me out.”
He lowered his voice, the warmth of the kitchen and the intimacy of the small table making everything feel closer.
“There’s a scene in one of your books,” he continued, holding her gaze, “that I have not stopped thinking about since I first read it. The one in Shadows Between the Shelves—the late-night encounter in the locked bookshop. Where the reclusive author who lives upstairs finally comes down after closing, and the quiet, devoted assistant who’s been reading her books for months…
corners her among the rare editions. He tells her he’s read every word she’s ever written, knows her better than anyone, and he’s done pretending he doesn’t want to taste the stories right off her skin. ”
Robyn let out a breath that sounded like a laugh caught in her chest.
“I remember writing that scene…” she said quietly.
A faint smile crossed her face, almost wistful.
“I wrote it here, actually. Right at that desk.” She nodded toward the little wooden desk by the window.
“My first week in the flat. It was late, and the bookstore was closed, and I could hear the floorboards settling downstairs. The whole place felt alive in the dark—all those books, all those stories, just breathing. And the scene just… came out of me. Like the bookstore wrote it as much as I did. I couldn’t type fast enough to keep up. ”
Tyler nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It reads like that.”
Robyn’s mouth quirked, but her eyes stayed serious. “Dark stacks,” she added, almost to herself. “I poured way too much of myself into it.”
Tyler leaned in a fraction. “Maybe that’s why it worked,” he said.
There was a beat of silence. Tyler waited to see what Robyn would say next.
Eventually, she spoke.
“You want to… go downstairs,” she said slowly, “right now. And play it out. In the actual bookshop?”
Tyler’s eyes never left hers. “Exactly. The shop’s closed. Lights low. Just us, the books, and the scene you wrote. Word for word if you want. Or we make it our own. Your call.”
Tyler could see her heart beating in her chest. It was as if her pulse was beating in time to his, the same frantic beat, slipping away from the edge of reason.
They moved quietly through the loft, the wooden stairs creaking under their feet.
Tyler unlocked the door at the bottom that led directly into the darkened bookshop.
The familiar scent of old paper, polished wood, and the trace of vanilla from the candles Robyn sometimes burned mixed together.
Moonlight filtered through the high windows, silvering the shelves.
Robyn flicked on only the wall sconces along the back wall, leaving most of the store in soft shadow.
The long central aisle stretched like a secret corridor.
She walked ahead, trailing her fingers along spines.
Tyler played along, letting Robyn slip ahead, pretending she was alone.
He locked the door behind them with a decisive click.
He didn’t speak. He let the silence press against them both, filling the space between the shelves the way it did in her story. Robyn moved deeper into the stacks, and he watched her go, his pulse steady and deliberate, his body coiled with a patience he didn’t entirely feel.
He’d read this scene so many times he could have recited it from memory.
But reading it and living it were two very different things, and standing here in the dark shop, the place where she’d written the story, shifted something inside him.
A door he’d kept carefully shut swung open, and the man on the other side wasn’t the easygoing, go-with-the-flow Tyler who deflected everything with a grin.
This version of him wanted to take.
Robyn turned slowly, leaning back against a shelf of first editions. Her chin lifted in the exact defiant angle she’d written for her character. “You’re supposed to be gone by now, Mr. Carter. Shop’s closed.”
Tyler closed the distance in measured steps.
He didn’t stop until her back pressed fully against the books.
One hand braced above her head on the shelf.
He didn’t touch her, not yet. He let the closeness do it instead, let her feel the heat of him, the size of him, the intent radiating off his skin.
“I’m not here for the shop,” he said, and his voice didn’t sound like his own.
It was lower, darker, a voice that had been waiting a long time to speak.
“I’m here for you. I’ve read every word you’ve written.
Memorized them. Especially the ones where the heroine finally lets the man who worships her take what he’s earned. ”
He saw his words hit. The flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, the way her pupils widened in the dim light.
“And what exactly do you think you’ve earned?”
His free hand found her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. It was possessive, certain. “This.” He leaned in until his lips grazed her ear, close enough to feel her shiver. “You. Right here. Among the stories you poured yourself into.”
He kissed her, drinking her in, taking what he wanted.
Then he took her mouth fully, tongue stroking hers in long, languid sweeps that tasted of wine and want.
She melted against him, arching so her breasts pressed against his chest, her hips rolling forward in a slow, instinctive grind. He felt himself strain against her through their clothes, thick and insistent, and he let her feel it too—didn’t pull back, didn’t apologize for it. He pressed closer.
He broke away only when she was dizzy, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat.
His teeth grazed the frantic pulse there, just as the character had done—but the growl that rumbled through his chest was entirely Tyler.
His hands moved with torturous patience, sliding up her thighs beneath the hem of her dress, fingertips tracing the sensitive skin across her belly, the soft outer curve of her hip, before bunching the fabric at her waist. The cool air of the shop met her newly bared skin, and he felt her gasp against his mouth.
“You’ve been torturing me with these skirts,” he murmured against her collarbone, and the words were from her story but the raw edge on them was his.
“Bending over crates so slowly… letting the fabric ride up just enough… knowing my eyes would follow every inch. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t give her room to answer.
His fingers ghosted along the lace edge of her panties, then slipped beneath.
He didn’t rush—he stroked her first, feather-light, his eyes locked on her face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross her features.
He wanted to see it. Wanted to own every second of it.