Near closing, I found him in mythology, staring down at an old Greek illustration of the Minotaur—snarling, monstrous, all brute force and horror.
“They always get it wrong,” he said.
I reached out and closed the book softly. “Those are stories.”
“Stories shape perception.”
“Then we need better stories.”
He looked at me, and the intensity there hit me low and hard.
“And what story are we writing, Clara?”
I swallowed. He was standing close enough now that I could feel the warmth coming off him.
“One that hasn’t been told properly before,” I said, and his gaze dropped to my mouth.
The automated closing announcement crackled over the speakers before either of us could move.
I exhaled shakily. “I should lock up.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “If you would like.”
“I would.”
By the time the last patron was out and Brenda had left with a look that promised future interrogation, dusk had settled over the parking lot.
Rion walked me to my car.
The evening air was cool, but standing beside him I barely felt it.
“Thank you for today,” I said as we stopped beside my car. “For the books. And lunch. And not running away after I attacked you in the break room.”
A slow smile touched his mouth. “Attacked?”
“It was a very librarian assault.”
“I survived.”
He stepped closer. Not enough to trap me, but enough that my back was almost against the car door and I had to tilt my head to hold his gaze.
“Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow?” I asked. “At my apartment. I make a decent pasta, and I promise the furniture is mostly sturdy.”
“I would like that,” he said. “Very much.”
Relief and anticipation went through me at once. “Seven?”
“Seven.” He hesitated. “I’ll bring bread.”
“Of course you will.”
His hand came up slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. When I didn’t, he cupped my cheek. His palm was warm and broad and impossibly gentle.
“Goodnight, Clara,” he said.
I turned my face slightly into his hand before I could think better of it. “Goodnight, Rion.”
This time, when he kissed me, there was nothing impulsive about it.
