I scooped up the two packages and started to tiptoe back to my side of the house, only to feel a sudden tug.
“What the?—”
I’d stepped on something and looked down just in time to see a loose strip of packing tape fluttering like a ribbon.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
But it was too late.
The marshmallow was suddenly right in front of me as if sensing the strip of tape that could be considered trash. In the very dim lamplight I watched the little snowball start toward me, her tail already wagging like she’d just been handed the greatest toy of her life.
“Luna, no,” I said urgently. “That’s not for?—”
Too late.
Luna lunged, clamped her teeth down on the dangling tape, and yanked.
The package slipped from my arms.
“Luna, no. Give that back!” I hissed, lunging forward.
Luna took off.
“Luna!” I chased after her, half-running, half-panicking as the dog barreled across the living room and into another room.
I didn’t even think as I pushed my way through the unknown door in search of Luna.
I wasn’t prepared for what I found on the other side.
It wasn’t just a small office or a guest bedroom.
No, it was a massive library.
My mouth fell open.
“Holy…” I trailed off, Luna and my pantyliners long forgotten.
It was every literary addict’s dream.
Dark wooden shelves towered to the high, beamed ceiling. Each shelf was filled with an extensive collection of books, their spines displaying an array of colors and editions. Ladders on brass rails provided access to the higher shelves, and I felt my jaw go slack in complete and utter awe. I’d always wanted one of those.
Chandeliers similar to the ones in the living room, crafted from antlers and candles, hung from the ceiling. The floors were covered in shaggy, patterned rugs that muffled my footsteps and added to the room's grandeur. Stunning floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the private section of the lake, and the air was filled with the mouthwatering scent of aged paper and leather. I felt as if I had died and gone to heaven.
There was no way this could be Jay’s. He hadn’t mentioned having an intense love for books. When I’d asked him if he read, he’d shrugged it off. He’d said he read sometimes. His collection didn’t hint at someone who only read sometimes.
I stood in front of one of the ladders, hesitating. I felt like I was trespassing by being in here. But for me, this was a scene from my dreams. I couldn’t imagine leaving without exploring just a little bit longer.
My excitement won out, and I started searching the fiction section, scanning the spines for my favorites. Jane Austen. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Virginia Woolf. Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I searched for Aprilynne Pike, Courtney Walsh, Cindy Steel, and finally, my all-time favorite.
Lindy Parker.
“No way…” I murmured, stopping in front of an entire section dedicated to Lindy Parker. I pulled out the first book,The Wildflower Apartment, and examined the front page. It was in immaculate condition.
When I checked the publication date and edition, I gasped and let out a little squeak.
It was a first edition.
“Why in the world does he have these?” I murmured aloud to myself. Jay’s collection was more extensive than my own. While I owned many of Lindy’s books, I didn’t have any first editions. These had to be worth a fortune. Lindy Parker was incredibly famous, but she was no longer alive. She had passed away a few years ago.
