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I hold up the book for him.
“Think she’ll like it?”
“She enjoys reading,” he says, attempting to stay neutral.
“And what has she done with the flowers?”
Hopefully they haven’t all suffered a terrible fate, buried at the bottom of a trash can, shredded in a garbage disposal, crushed beneath the heel of her shoe.
“They’re in her room.”
My eyebrows spike. “All of them?”
He nods a bit reluctantly, as if he’s betraying her by giving me this information.
“Good. When you go alert her of my arrival tonight, you should tell her I have no plans of stopping.”
“Tonight, I won’t tell her anything. She isn’t in residence.”
It’s Friday night, close to 8 PM.
Surely, she’s not…
“Is she on a date?” I ask, sounding indignant.
He nods nearly imperceptibly. “A friend came to collect her. Collette. They went to dinner.”
There’s no inflection in his tone, no hint of any feelings.
“Right. Thanks.”
I hand him the book, knowing he’ll pass it on to her. On my way out the door, I turn back to him. “Has anyone ever told you that you missed your calling with the FBI?”
I swear, for the first time since I met him, he almost smiles.
“Good night, Mr. Mercier.”
The next day, I have a work dinner with Alexander and the team from Banks and Barclay that runs late. I don’t leave my office until close to 10:30 PM, but I still have my driver take me to Lainey’s grandmother’s house. Once we pull up and I see all the lights off, I decide I can’t knock. I’ve missed my opportunity, and it doesn’t sit well with me. The day went by without a visit and I don’t want Lainey to get the wrong idea, so the next morning, I arrive on her doorstep before work. The sun hasn’t even fully risen, and my breath is visible as I wait for Jacobs to let me in.
I have coffee and fresh croissants from a bakery, enough for Jacobs and everyone.
The moment he opens the door, I quickly explain, “Tell her I came last night, but it was too late.”
He nods as he lets me in, closing the door against the chill before taking the food and drinks from my outstretched hands.
I expect him to send me away like usual with some brushoff about how Lainey is otherwise occupied, but he returns a few minutes later with The Midnight Library in hand.
My heart sinks. My brows furrow as I have no choice but to accept it. It feels like an obvious rejection. She might not have returned the flowers, but she’s returning the book. She’s telling me to stop.
Then I feel the raised ridges on the spine, the evidence of a book read through to the end, bent back on itself and well-loved. I turn it in my hand, running my finger down over the binding with gentle reverence.
“She read all of yesterday evening,” Jacobs divulges as I continue to study the book. “Up in the front sitting room. I think she might have been waiting for you to come.”
I’m impatient, giddy almost, as I rush to speak. “Let her know I’ll come back this evening. I’ll bring another book.”
I look back up at him, and there’s a softness in his gaze he’s usually careful to hide.
He nods to let me know he’ll keep up his end of the bargain then I’m rushing back to my car, already thinking of which title I should get her next. I slide onto the back seat and the book falls open on my lap. Neon yellow highlighter catches my eye. I flip a few more pages to see she’s done it every so often, highlighted a line or two of text. Once, a whole paragraph. There are no annotations or notes. Instead, she’s simply marked her favorite passages. It’s her way of letting me know she liked it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lainey
I wait for him every day.
It’s a habit I’m not proud of. At first I assumed it would be easy to ignore his comings and goings. I received the flowers and set them up in my room then went on with life as if there were nothing at all different except my new hours at Morgan’s and the modest social life I’ve started to carve out for myself. I’ve tried little things. I took myself out to dinner the other night, alone with my Kindle. It was utterly thrilling and I felt like everyone in the restaurant was watching me the entire time, but in truth, no one cared. In fact, the waiter gave me a glass of wine on the house and asked me about the book I was reading but largely left me alone. I can’t recommend it enough.
That said, there is no ignoring Emmett, no matter how much I wish I were immune to him. The flowers are unbearably beautiful and over the top, and I change the water and trim the stems. When a rose starts to wilt, I press it between the pages of an old art history textbook, hoping it’ll dry nicely.
