Page 102 of Backlash

“I didn’t steal them,” he says, a little wounded.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fair.” He runs his fingers along the spines of a row of books, almost wistfully. “When the library around the corner closed, they moved most of their books to other branches. What was left over was sold four for a dollar. At that point, there wasn’t a single book from a bestseller list this century. I spent every dollar I could get my hands on. I looked for change on my way to school. I went so many times over their last month that the librarians ended up letting me carry off entire boxes for free, just so they wouldn’t have to take them to a landfill.”

“I’m sure it had nothing to do with you loving books as much as they did,” I say. “How many of them have you read?”

“Almost all of the fiction,” he says evenly. “Older non-fiction is pretty hit-and-miss. Racist historians from the 50s get old pretty fast.”

I almost can’t believe he has read all these books. Did he do anything else? I find an average looking shelf, count the number of books, and multiply it by the number of shelves I see. “Sterling, there are probably two thousand books here. You’re telling me you’ve read almost all of them?”

“I’ve seen the library at Windfall. You’ve probably read even more than me.”

“Uh, no. Not even close. What happens in this one?” I put my hand on a book at random. It turns out to be Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence. Whoops.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know that one. You like the Brits, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve all of British literature.” I look around the room again. “I mean, you have.”

“It’s not great, anyway. Too stoically British for me. You should read it.” A wry smile pops onto Sterling’s face as he adds, “Might give you pointers on falling for someone beneath you.”

I shake my head. I hate it when he says things like that, but I don’t want to fight—so I pretend he means something else. “Are you saying you’re a libertine?”

“Your virtue is not safe.” He pulls me toward him, his hands greedy for my body.

Francie’s voice sounds behind us in the hall as Sterling gives my earlobe a playful nip. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, you two.”

She shuts the door, leaving us alone. “I still can’t believe she’s okay with me being in your room.”

“Like people our age don’t sleep together in Valmont?”

“We’re raised to sneak around,” I tell him. “It’s the proper thing to do.”

“Wait, where were we?”

“You were assailing my virtue.”

“Right,” he says, and his hands are on me again. “Where do you come down on opening presents before Christmas?”

He pops the top button of my red plaid pajamas.

“We always open presents on Christmas Eve.”

“What about Christmas Eve’s Eve? I’m not sure I can wait until Christmas morning,” he explains. “You are my present, right?”

“As long as it won’t ruin Christmas or anything.”

He pops another button, just between my breasts, and I can feel the familiar electric throb of his hands on my body. I close my eyes and let it take over.

“See, that’s your problem right there, Lucky.”

I peek down at what he’s talking about. “Huh?”

“The bow is supposed to go on the outside of the present.” He points to the small silk bow sewn on my bra.

“You know, I wasn’t sure I had it right. That’s why there are two bows.”

“Two?” He fiddles with the drawstring on my bottoms. “Where’s the other one?”