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I’m meant to be keeping my distance. Hannah is meant to be a friend at best, a person who is learning from me, not a woman I care deeply about, but each passing moment I spend in her presence, I am losing control. And I will do anything to make this right.
I walk to my bedroom door and knock once.
No answer.
“Hannah?”
“Yeah?”
“May I come in?”
Quiet, and then her footsteps on the hardwood floor. She opens the door and narrows her eyes up at me. “You going to yell at me again?”
“I’m sorry.”
She bites down on her bottom lip.
“I shouldn’t have been a dick.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I shouldn’t have gone in there when you didn’t want me to. I just, I saw the door cracked open, and I was super curious, and then I when I saw the books…”
“You couldn’t resist?”
“No,” she says, and laughs. “I couldn’t resist.” She backs up then turns and sways her hips over to the bed. She sits down on it and hugs herself. She’s wearing my sweater again, which I’m taking as a good sign.
The fact that I’m taking it as anything makes me an idiot.
“You can go into the library any time you like.” It hurts to say that. It physically hurts. “Just don’t expect me to spend a lot of time with you in there.”
“Oh.” And she bites that lip again. I can tell she wants to ask why, but I do not have it in me to tell her today.
“Forget I said that.” And I beckon to her. “Come on. Let me give you a tour.”
“Of the library?”
“Yeah.” I hold out a hand.
Hannah stares at it a second before slipping off the bed and padding over. I take her hand and deeply regret it. It’s soft and warm, it’s delicate, and even now, I picture it wrapped around my cock. I need help.
I guide her down the hallway and open the library door. I grit my teeth but force myself to take a breath.
“You can read whatever you like in here.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I feel guilty, though. I?—”
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m not used to company. I like things done in a certain way, and I don’t really like people being in my space most of the time.” But she was fast becoming the exception to that rule, and one that I couldn’t afford to make.
“Why is that?” she asks, walking toward the bookshelves opposite us. She strokes her fingers down the spines of the books with care, and I admire her fingers, the pink nail polish, the way she moves.
Fuck, I am so screwed. I’m getting a boner over the way she touches books.
“These are… uh, steamy,” she says, lifting one of the novels from the contemporary romance section off the shelf. “Do you read any of these? Wait, silly question, there’s that one you borrowed from the library.”
“That was an accident.”
“Is it also an accident that you bookmarked several pages?” she murmurs the question.
I stroke my beard to hide my smile. “I don’t usually read historical romance,” I say. “I prefer contemporary stuff.”
