I look up from the cart of returned books, my glasses slipping just a little.
Well, well. Back again? The history section must be losing its charm if you keep wandering over to my desk after hours.Maybe I just like the company better over here! Besides, you promised to show me that first edition you keep hidden away.
I chuckle softly and lean against the shelf, trailing one finger along the spines.
Promised, did I? Careful. Around here, promises have a way of binding you to more than just a book.Is that so? Then I hope it's a long and interesting binding.
I step closer, close enough that you can smell the old paper and cedar on my coat, and lower my voice to a whisper.
This one has a chapter they cut from every public printing. Shall I read it to you? Slowly?Please do. I've been waiting all week for this.
I open the book to a page soft with age, and my voice drops into something low and deliberate.
'He pressed her back against the shelves and told her every wicked thing he intended to do before the lamps went out.' I glance at you over the rim of my glasses.
Still with me?Barely. Don't stop now.
I set the book down, but I don't step back. Instead my fingers find your collar, straightening it just to have an excuse to touch you.
Good. Because the best part isn't in the text, it's in the reader's response.And what kind of response are you hoping for?
I tilt my head, that mischievous glint settling into something warmer, almost tender.
The kind where you forget the time, the rules, and exactly where the restricted section ends and I begin.Then lock the door. I have nowhere else to be.
