My feet catapult me forward.She’s a plant sent to find dirt on the Dark Prince.Rage drowns out reason.
“Sam?”
She turns toward me, not frightened as much as bewildered by my outburst.
Doesn’t she understand that these books represent the foundational part of myself? The only piece I’ve kept pure.
And she’s touching them. Writing titles in her notebook like some fucking literary spy.
“Why are you so upset?”
Only when those green eyes hit me, filling with pure terror, do I stop short, immediately aware of my imposing presence, how threatening I must seem.
Something about her fear, her fragility, cuts through the red haze.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, forcing my voice to gentle. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this alcove is a private space.”
“I didn’t realize,” she stammers, stepping back. “There was no closed door. No door at all...”
I look pointedly at her notebook. “What are you writing?” Every muscle in me tenses.
“Just taking notes about your books.”
“Really? So you can read them later? Most of these books havebeen out of print for centuries. And what were you doing in that noodle shop, anyway? Lying in wait for me? Are you a tabloid spy?”
“No!” Her voice trembles.
Twenty years in this business has taught me to doubt everything. But somehow, I sense she’s telling the truth.
“I told you why I was there. About Hilary...”
The mention of her dead sister throws me. If she’s playing me, it’s elaborate. And those eyes... They hold the same raw hurt I heard in Rafe’s voice as he spoke about his mother. You can’t fake that kind of pain.
“Look,” I say, trying for a calmer tone. “My worry comes with the territory.” I don’t specify what territory, but something in her eyes softens.
“I get it. Privacy’s important.” She glances at her notebook. Then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and holds it out to me.
“You can read this page if you want to. Just where I made notes about your books.”
She covers the opposite page with her slender hand, purple ink peeking through her fingers.
“You have secrets too?” I’m surprised to hear humor in my voice.
“Everyone does. But you can’t read mine.” Her smile comes slowly. “Not yet, anyway.”
“But you read mine.”
“I didn’t know they were secrets. I thought they were old books.”
“If they’re just dusty old books, why take notes?”
“That’s my secret.” She meets my eyes. “I apologize. Really. I promise never to look at your bookshelf again. You can read what I wrote about them. Then we can drop this?”
The gesture disarms me completely. A spy wouldn’t offer evidence. And there’s something about her, this mix of fragility and quiet strength that makes me want to believe her.
I take the notebook, scanning her neat handwriting. Just book titles, authors, and brief notes:
Jung—check library
