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“So how is the work going?” he asks in a different tone. It’s an obvious attempt to change the subject, but I’m relieved by it. “Are you making good progress?”
I start summarizing what I’ve been working on, but he asks too many questions, so I end up rambling on and on. I show him the updates in my cataloging system, and then we start looking at some of the rarer volumes. Before I know it, two hours have passed.
Stella comes in with a tray of hot chocolate and gingerbread cookies, smiling maternally as we chat on. She leaves without interrupting our conversation, although we both pause to thank her.
Our mugs are nearly empty and the cookies almost gone before I finally drop my eyes, wondering what got into me for babbling on this way.
I’m not a babbler. Anyone who knows me would agree.
But the past couple of hours have been the most enjoyable ones I’ve spent for the past year, ever since my father was arrested.
“Sorry for talking on and on,” I say, the reflex to apologize so ingrained in me I say the words even knowing Arthur won’t like them.
He narrows his eyes.
“Sorr—” I choke on the word.
“Were you about to apologize for apologizing?” Despite his wry tone, his eyes are warmer than I’ve ever seen them. Like melting chocolate.
“Of course not.” I flash him a smile. “I’ll try to do better. But seriously, I’m sure you have work to do.”
“There’s always work to do. This was a much better way to spend the afternoon.”
I look up at him through my eyelashes, feeling shy even as I smile. “It’s not often I talk to someone who knows so much about books.”
“Same.” He glances into his mug and must see one remaining sip. He tilts it up to finish it.
When he swallows and lowers the mug, he has a sheen of liquid above his upper lip.
I don’t understand the impulse. And I don’t understand why I act on it. I’m not someone who is forward about physical touch, even with the men I used to date when I had some sort of social life. But for whatever reason, I’m compelled to reach over and swipe my thumb along the line of his lip, wiping away the residue of hot chocolate.
His skin is deliciously rough under the pad of my thumb. The friction makes me shiver. He grows very still, his eyes devouring my face.
I freeze with my hand still extended toward his lips.
He’s not a man I’m supposed to be close to. Definitely not a man I’m supposed to touch.
But right now—in this moment—it’s the only thing I want.
