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I get up and head for the master bedroom, then clean myself up in the bathroom and change my pants. I put on underwear this time, because panty-lines or not, I can’t afford to ruin yet another pair of pants because of Savage. I only packed three.
I head out into the hall.
The fire crackles from the living room, and the front door is shut, probably locked from the outside to keep me safe. And Savage is out there in the rain, while I?—
My gaze wanders to the other doors, and my heart skips a beat. One of the “forbidden” doors is open a crack.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek.
“This is wrong,” I murmur. “You’re not doing this. You were told not to do this.”
But I’m also tired of being told what not to do and when. My feet carry me toward the door, and I shiver, nervous about what I might find inside.
What is Savage hiding? Gosh, at this point, what isn’t he hiding? The man is an enigma. All I know about him is that he was in the Navy, he doesn’t like to talk, he cooks a mean chicken piccata, and he is seriously well-endowed. Scarily well-endowed. Like, I’m not even sure it will fit, well-endowed.
Ruining the pants, Hannah.
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I press my palm to the door. It opens on oiled hinges, and I gasp.
The room is hexagonal in shape, and the center is empty except for a few comfy-looking armchairs and a coffee table. The walls are dominated by bookshelves that groan under the weight of countless books. Books in every color and size, but neatly categorized so that it’s beautifully aesthetic. The only spaces not occupied by the shelves are those that let in light from French windows. There’s even a little nook beneath one of the windows that looks like it will get amazing sunlight.
“Wow,” I breathe.
This is a librarian’s fantasy. A beautiful home library filled with books? Unreal.
And Savage knows I’m a librarian, so why would he keep this from me?
I enter the room slowly and move along the bookshelves closest to me. They’re not set up in alphabetical order. There’s an entire bookcase dedicated to one author in particular. C. M. Casey.
I remove one of the books and turn it over. It’s a middle grade fantasy adventure with a young girl on the front holding up her hand with a ball of fire above it. Gosh, these are exactly the types of books I wanted to get for the library before things fell through with the hot pepper-eating contest.
I’ve still got time. I can find donors for the revamp, talk to the?—
“What are you doing?” Savage’s voice rings through the space.
I swallow and turn toward him. “Sorry,” I say, putting up a smile. “The door was open and once I saw what was in here I couldn’t resist. This is an impressive collection. I mean, seriously. Are they all children’s books?” I lift up the book in my hand.
His dark gaze flickers to it and then up to my face. “Put it back.”
“What?”
“Put that back.”
“Savage, look, I?—”
“Put it back.” It comes out as a bark that verges on a shout, and I jolt on the spot.
I grew up with brothers, so I’ve seen my fair share of testosterone-fueled arguments, but it shocks me. I have seen Savage lose control once. And it was at the hot pepper eating contest after he saved my life.
“You don’t need to raise your voice at me,” I say, lifting my chin and glaring at him.
“I wasn’t raising my voice.”
“And now you’re going to gaslight me too?”
“Hannah, put the book back. Please.”
“No.”
