I glanced at him. “Private rooms?”
He paused. “We need not continue if you are uncomfortable.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I want to see more.”
Something in his expression softened again, and he led me forward into a more intimate space that was clearly a personal living area. The same clean architectural lines remained, but this room felt lived in. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with everything from philosophy to literature to ancient architectural texts. A huge custom-built sofa faced a smooth concrete fireplace. Near a skylight, a reading chair held an open book and a half-finished cup of tea.
“You interrupted my morning reading,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a welcome interruption.”
The simple honesty of it sent a small, traitorous flutter through my chest, but I moved to the bookshelves, trying not to dwell on it. “You have an amazing collection.”
“Some are quite old.”
He pointed out a sixteenth-century volume of Vitruvius, and I carefully pulled it down. The margins were filled with notes—some antique, some far more modern in a precise hand I assumed was his.
“You’ve read this many times.”
“It is foundational.”
I replaced the book gently, very aware of him standing close beside me. At some point, his presence had stopped feeling intimidating and started feeling… grounding.
“Your home is extraordinary,” I said, turning to face him. “Not just as architecture. It feels like a complete expression of who you are.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“Few would see it that way,” he said.
“Then they aren’t looking properly.” I smiled a little. “Every curve, every material choice, every sound shift—it all says something. It’s like reading your autobiography in concrete and light.”
For a moment he simply looked at me, all of that usual reserve falling away. What was left beneath it was quieter and far more dangerous to my peace of mind.
“You see a great deal, Clara.”
“I’m a librarian. It’s practically a job requirement.”
“Is that all it is?” he asked, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second. “Professional habit?”
My pulse kicked.
“No,” I admitted.
The air between us changed.
He stepped closer, not enough to crowd me, just enough that I had to tilt my head back to keep looking at him. His scent wrapped around me again, and my thoughts dissolved into static.
Then he said, “Your ladder. At the library. You still need a solution.”
I blinked. “Oh. Right. Yes. The display is still doomed.”
“I could help,” he said. “As I said, I could build something suitable. Or I could come to the library and assist you directly. After hours, perhaps.”
The image of Rion in my library hit me all at once—moving through the stacks, reaching the upper shelves with ease, his careful hands handling books.
“That would be wonderful,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Though we might have to avoid giving Mrs. Abernathy a heart attack.”
