What reason did we have not to fuck again?
Beau took a visible breath, like he was steadying himself, talking himself out of something. He gripped my library card with such force, I thought he’d crush it.
He looked down as if he only just remembered it was in his hands.
“Library card.” His words were thick, voice hoarse and sounding half mad. “Why do you have one?”
“I, um, love to read.” I cleared my throat as if the action would scoop all the desire I felt for this man out of me. “Always have. We didn’t have money for books growing up. I’d buy second hand when I could, but then I’d have to take them…” I trailed off, smelling stale cigarette smoke, fresh liquor, hearing the TV blast, my mother yelling at me for something or another, her latest boyfriend leering or sneering at me while I tried to immerse myself in a fictional world.
“I tend to get immersed in books.” I smoothed down the throw on the sofa, not looking at him. “And it wasn’t … safe to get immersed so completely when I was at the place I lived.” I didn’t call it a home. It was never that. I hadn’t had a home until I met a little girl named Clara and her grumpy father.
I rolled my neck, still not looking at Beau but memorizing every scent, feel of this living room into my being so I could carry this home around with me when I was gone. And I would leave. No matter that things with Beau were … whatever they were. Clara would be in school, there would be no reason for him to have a full-time, live-in nanny. I’d be forced back into the life that I’d been so sure was my escape—nursing school, getting a job, paying off my loans, getting on my feet.
The thought of that future now made me a bit queasy.
I blinked the room back into existence. Beau was watching me with an intent expression, brows knitted together, hands balled on his knees, his features no longer playful or light.
“The library,” I said, recalling what I was talking about again. “It was a safe place for me. So many books, all the books I could read. For free.” I shrugged. “Old habits die hard. And I don’t have the bank account to buy a Kindle, let alone the books that I would stock it with. Books are still free at the library, so I can read as much as I want. And call me a purist, but I love holding a physical book, smelling it.” I smiled shyly. “I would’ve pegged you as a Luddite too,” I added, in reference to his e-reader.
Because I was afraid to look at Beau any longer, I reached forward for the tablet that had been lying on the coffee table beside my library card. I loved how they looked beside each other. Like they belonged there.
Beau had been reading before work, Clara puttering with her dollhouse in the corner. He’d never left it in a common space before, and I’d stared at it for a long time after I’d put Clara to bed. The devil inside me wanted to open it, find out more about Beau by invading his privacy.
But I didn’t want to have to invade his privacy to get to know him.
“Can I?” I gestured with the tablet to ask permission.
Beau wasn’t looking at the tablet. He was staring square in my face. His head tilted slowly in a nod.
I smirked in triumph, a little forced because I didn’t know how to act. Beau’s energy seemed dangerous in an infinitely exciting way that made my nipples harden.
It only took me a second, a couple of taps to lose my breath completely. My heart skipped, then it felt as if it stopped completely.
“I’ve read all these books.” I squinted, looking at his Kindle library, my eyes raising to peer at him as I catalogued the titles. I’d read every one since I arrived here.
Heat crawled up my neck at a few specific titles. The romances. Thespicyromances.
My eyes flickered to the icon that declared them as read.
Beau had read all the books I’d read. It wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe a couple of the biographies could’ve been a crossover between our interests. Maybe. But I doubted that Beau had independently chosen to read metaphysical self-help books, history about female rulers, or feminist bibles about reclaiming agency and strength.
And Beau definitely wasn’t reading romance just by chance.
He’d seen me. I’d let him see me. Every time I waited up for him, every time I had free moments, I’d been in shared spaces with my books. Mostly because I liked to model that for Clara—people reading books instead of scrolling on their phone. Not that she had anyone in the house doing that. I very rarely saw Beau on his phone. It was a small detail that I found very endearing. Waylon had been glued to his. And the couch. I’d had to repeat myself countless times to get him to even acknowledge that I’d spoken, and when he did reply, he didn’t even lift his gaze. Didn’t even give me the basic respect of looking at me when he was speaking to me.
As if I didn’t matter. As if whatever pulled him in that little phone was infinitely more important than his wife.
Beau looked at me. Every time we spoke. Every time I entered a room. I’d thought it was with mere annoyance. That he never really saw me. But things had changed since that pivotal night, and I was beginning to comprehend just how much was loaded behind those glares.
He saw me.
And he saw the books I was reading, buying them and reading them too.
My mind buzzed with what that meant, my heart racing in my chest. Slowly, I looked up at Beau, all the moisture evaporating from my mouth.
Again, he was looking at me. Centering me to the spot, to this earth. My breath caught at the tense way he held his limbs, the twitch in his jaw and the fire in his eyes.
Before I could entirely register what I was doing, the Kindle was tossed across the room. I noted the dull clatter, noticed that Beau didn’t so much as flinch, didn’t take his eyes off me.
