I smile. I bought it because she’s a heavy coffee drinker and I hoped to invite her here at some point. I could picture her curled up with a good book and fresh coffee in one of the seats with a blanket over her.
She goes over and studies the machine. “It looks new.”
“It is,” I say. “I haven’t had a chance to use it.”I got it for you.
“We could have coffee together and read,” she says excitedly, then caution slips into her expression. “Unless you’d rather watch TV or something?”
“Reading is better.”
She flashes me a smile, then studies the books on the shelves. “You have the old leather-bound encyclopedias?”
“Yeah. They don’t publish them anymore, though.”
“I know. Wow. I only see them in public libraries occasionally.” She tilts her head and parts her mouth. “You have romance novels!”
“Yes.”
“Special editions, too.”
“Yeah, I buy them when they’re available. But some are just regular paperbacks.” Not all the authors Molly recommends on her Instagram account put out special hardbacks.
She looks surprised. “Do you read them, too?”
“Of course. I’ve read everything in this library.” I collect romance novels because I want to read the same books Molly does. It’s part of an endless desire to get to know her better, to understand what makes her happy, what makes her “swoon.”
“Ooooh…” Molly goes up on her toes and stretches, trying to reach a book on the top shelf.
I admire the soft lines of her body as she extends herself. But she’s not even close to getting the book. “Which one?”
“Can you grabWhat He Wantsby Emma Grant, please? I started it a couple of days ago, but haven’t finished it yet.”
“Sure.”
I take a step forward before she can move, place a hand on the bookcase to her left and lean forward, momentarily enclosing her in the space between me and the shelves. She’s close enough that I can smell the floral scent of her shampoo. I raise my arm, reaching for the book she asked for. Her breath hitches—the sound is small, but we’re so close. Meanwhile, her silken hair caresses the tip of my nose and chin, and the head of the erection I’ve had for the past twenty minutes brushes against her.
The touch is like an electric jolt. I grit my teeth to contain the low groan gathering in my chest. She just had a breakup, and I didn’t mean to have my dick touch her, even through clothes. It’s too fast. If I don’t rein myself in, the relationship I’d love to have with Molly is going to crash and burn.
“Here.” I hand her the book.
She can’t quite meet my eye as she takes it. Our fingers brush—accidentally? I’m praying that it’s not—that she wants to touch me as much as I want to touch her.
“Um. Thanks.” She smiles. “That’s so sweet of you.”
“Want to see the rest of the house or your room?” Speaking is a struggle now. My throat is so dry.
“My room.” She hugs the book. Either she’s using it as a shield or she’s going to read it all night. “It’s getting late, and I should get ready for bed.”
Chapter Nine
Nicholas
I give Molly options, but she ultimately ends up in the suite with the connecting door to mine. It’s the best room in the mansion, slightly bigger than my own. This weird design isn’t something I would’ve opted for. It was on Mom’s wish list because she’s convinced having separate bedrooms improves the quality of her sleep. Maybe Paul snores.
In any case, I never bothered to do anything about the connecting suites because it wasn’t high on my priority list. I figured when I got married and had kids it could be used as a nursery.
The connecting door is left locked on both sides for privacy. I wish there were only one bed in this ten-bedroom mansion. Romance novels always have one bed, even at the largest and swankiest hotels. My respect for romance novelists goes up a notch; clearly, they’re experts at logistics.
I go to my room, strip off my clothes and shower. My dick’s hard—a condition that has persisted since I brought Molly into my home.
