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“I want you to be yourself.” He’s still standing across the room, not moving any closer.
“This is myself. Believe it or not, I’m a nice person. I like being agreeable and polite and not getting into pointless arguments about ridiculous things. I’m not a loud, opinionated person.”
“You are opinionated. You have all kinds of opinions about almost everything. You just don’t want to share them with other people.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Because the real Scarlett is in there, hiding under the surface.” He finally comes closer, lifting one hand like he’s going to touch me but then dropping it again. “She’s who I want to see.”
I’m breathless again—not from surprise or annoyance this time. I stare up at him with wide eyes and hot cheeks. “Did I... Did I... Did you see her before?”
He opens his mouth to reply. I see the answer on his lips. But then he jerks his head to the side and swallows visibly.
“Arthur?” It feels like the first time I’ve ever called him by his first name, although I know it’s not.
All the intensity that’s been vibrating inside him disperses as he lets out a long breath. “I caught a glimpse a time or two,” he says mildly. “We weren’t strangers, and that’s how you’re treating me now.”
“I know. I’m sure it’s very weird for you. But I don’t remember any of that. It’s not... it’s not personal. I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know you are. You’re doing just fine.”
His words make me feel better. I don’t want to hurt his feelings or offend him by not remembering our becoming friends before, and he appears to understand that.
But I also feel something akin to disappointment, loss. Because the angst I sensed in him a minute ago was real, and his mild composure right now is his way of hiding, as much as my polite passivity.
This is safer. Far safer. But it does feel like I’m not getting everything.
Arthur gives his head a little shake like he’s brushing off lingering tendrils of emotion. “Well, since you can’t sleep, do you want some hot chocolate?”
My lips part. “Yes. That’s exactly what I want.”
“I could use some too. Come on.”
I follow him out of the library, down the hall, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. There he takes the milk out of the commercial-size refrigerator and pours some into a saucepan.
I go to the pantry to get the cocoa and sugar, bringing them to the counter next to the stove.
Only then do I wonder how I knew exactly where they were.
“Have we done this before?” I ask softly as he idly stirs the milk as it warms.
All he says is “Yes.”
I don’t say anything as he adds the cocoa and sugar until it’s dissolved and the liquid is hot. Then he pours it into two mugs.
We carry our drinks back into the library and sit in the window seat to drink.
There’s a lot going on behind his silence and his stoic expression. He has stormy depths that are both fascinating and unnerving. But he seems determined to not let me see them.
It’s not like I can blame him. I don’t want him to see into my mind and heart either.
“I didn’t expect you to wear pajamas like that,” I blurt out after several minutes. Then I flush when I realize what I said.
His thick eyebrows arch. His lips twitch up in that appealing way I’ve only seen a couple of times. “Did you assume I sleep naked?”
I really don’t need that visual. He’s not any sort of bodybuilder, but he’s got long limbs and broad shoulders and the utilitarian kind of fitness of a man who lives an active life. His naked body will be attractive. I know it for sure.
“No. I was thinking more of satin pajamas and a velvet smoking jacket. Maybe a pipe.”
