I see the title first and my steps falter until I almost stumble over my own feet. How did that get here? I have scoured this library and I know a copy of that book wasn’t in here before today.
I trace my fingers over the gilded gold lettering and a sob bubbles up from my chest. I scold myself.Emotion is weakness.Still, my lip wobbles and I bite down on it to stop myself from crying, but a rogue tear spills down my cheek anyway. My hand trembles when I pick up the book, running my palm over the soft green leather cover before holding it briefly to my chest, close to my heart where this story has lived since I was a child.
Then I bring it to my nose, inhaling the familiar scent of old paper, and a hundred memories come flooding back to me. Some horrible but mostly good. Reading beneath a chestnut tree while butterflies danced in the tall grass. Hiding beneath the covers in a thunderstorm with a flashlight while I pretended to be Mary on her adventures with Colin and Dickon. No matter how dark or desperate I would feel sometimes about my life and the fate that awaited me, this book would take me away from it all. It was my life raft in any storm. I open the cover to the first page and find it inscribed with black cursive writing. The words cause a physical ache deep in my chest.
For Imogen. Who is braver, stronger and more courageous than any character from any story ever written.
More tears burn behind my eyes. Lincoln did this? He remembered our conversation about my love for this book. Hethought enough about me to obtain a copy and write this message inside. While he was incredibly caring toward me the other night, this might be the kindest and most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me. Ever.
His footsteps alert me to his presence as he walks into the room. They’re unmistakable to me now, much heavier and slightly faster than Pierre’s. I pivot to face him, clutching the book in my hands.
“Did you do this for me, sir?”
He’s at his desk already, opening up his laptop. “Do what?” he asks, not gracing me with any eye contact. So I drift closer, until I’m standing in front of his desk.
Eventually he looks up.
“The book?” I ask.
His right eye twitches. “Yes.”
“It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you.”
He shrugs. “My antiques dealer came across a copy and I recalled you telling me it was your favorite.”
“It is.” I’m still overwhelmed with emotion. Gratitude. Happiness. Not to mention the lingering fantasies of him on top of me leaving me confused and excited at the same time.
My eyes wander over his torso, from the hard muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt to his forearms covered with dark ink and thick veins that stretch all the way to his knuckles, leading to his powerful hands. I recall how tenderly he pressed the hot water bottle onto my stomach and wonder how gentle he’d be with the rest of my body. How skilled those hands would be at touching me in the places I’m aching to be touched.
He’s pretending like this isn’t a big deal, but we both know that it is, and I wish I could understand why he hides his true self from me. Not the man behind the literal mask, but the one behind the other mask he wears—the one not made of fabric or ceramic, but of pain and guilt. I wonder if he knows that hedoesn’t need to wear either of his masks around me, not his literal or his metaphorical one. I see him anyway, even if he doesn’t realize that yet. But the words he wrote inside the book don’t fit with the cold and detached man sitting in front of me right now. I suspect that is the man the whole world gets to see. But this is not the one who wrote those beautiful words, or the same man who sat with me because I was scared of a little thunder. I expect that version of him is reserved for a few select people. Perhaps only for me? I hope so. It makes me feel special to know that I get a glimpse of that different part of him. “The inscription is beautiful, sir. Did you write it?”
The muscles of his jaw twitch visibly beneath his mask. “Yes.”
My heart is racing. Stomach fluttering. “Did you mean it?”
“I’m not in the habit of writing things I don’t mean, Imogen.”
He thinks I’m all those things! Now it’s not only my heart racing, but it feel like there’s actual lightning zapping through my veins. I want to thank him again, but I’m afraid if I speak, I might let all these feelings that are swirling around inside me out. Emotion is weakness. But when Lincoln Knight does things like this, it makes me wonder if that weakness is a price worth paying.
His dark eyes are burning into mine, making heat sear through my core. That wet sticky feeling is happening between my legs again and I’m sure my pussy is pulsing with its own heartbeat. I squeeze my thighs together to try and stop the feeling, but it has no effect at all. Surely this is it and he’s going to leap across his desk and kiss me—the girl he thinks is strong and brave and courageous. After what feels like forever, he speaks. “Is there anything else, Imogen?”
And just like that he crushes the flicker of hope burning inside me. “No, sir.”
He drops his head and goes back to his laptop. With my book clutched in my hand, I go to my second favorite place in this house, my very own secret garden.
Pierre is sitting outside at the small table and chairs when I get there, his face tilted toward the sunshine and his eyes closed.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle.”
I sit with him. “Good afternoon, Pierre.”
“It is a beautiful day, is it not?”
“It certainly is.” I glance around the garden and wonder if he has any idea how overgrown it is. So many colors and scents all fighting for their own space. The yellow chocolate daisies struggling to flower through the tangles of bright green ivy, and the clematis being strangled by the fleabane. I imagine it was truly beautiful once and it seems a shame to not at least try and bring a little order to it, while maintaining it’s beautiful wildness. “Does Mr. Knight have a gardener?”
Pierre scoffs. “Non. Never.”
“Do you think he would mind if I did a little gardening? I could clear some space to grow vegetables and maybe some fruit.”
