Page 31 of To Love a Beast

Chapter 14

Callista had done more praying than book binding over the last two hours. Praying for Mr. Lightfoot, the doctor, and even Mr. Griffin. Distracted by her concern for Mr. Lightfoot, she hadn't trusted herself to tool any of the leather, so she'd cut book board instead. The simple task required less concentration, but she'd still managed to mismeasure a couple of the pieces. She'd trim the boards down later to use on smaller volumes, so it was no great tragedy, but it still irked her inner perfectionist.

Thankfully, Mrs. Potter stopped by the library to update her on Mr. Lightfoot's condition after the doctor left, assuring her that all was well and that he was expected to make a full recovery. The good news cheered her heart, but it failed to clear her mind. In fact, it worsened her distraction. For without her friend's injury to worry over, her mind turned to a different injured gentleman. One whose wounds stretched beneath the surface and couldn't be tended by the local physician.

Callista sighed as she released the bladed arm of the board shear, then wiped her moist palms across the front of her apron. She needed to quit thinking about her employer in such intimate terms. She'd been hired to bind books, not to bind the hidden wounds of a man far above her station. Yet hadn't God called his people to do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith? If she could help Mr. Griffin find peace in his circumstances, shouldn't she seek ways to do so?

God also called his people not to think of themselves more highly than they ought, and it could very well be her pride that made her think she had the power to help him. Or perhaps selfishness—seeking an excuse to deepen their interactions.

She couldn't deny that she was drawn to Everett Griffin. And not just in a pure-hearted, altruistic way. Her heart leapt each time he entered the library. Her gaze sought his at the dinner table. She didn't simply listen to him when he spoke, she hung on his words, caring far more about his thoughts and opinions than her position warranted. She longed to impress him with her artistry and to be the one who made him smile. She wanted him to desire her company the way she desired his.

Because she was developing feelings for the man.

And wasn't that the height of foolishness?

She'd only be at Manticore Manor for another three weeks, four at most. If by some miracle Mr. Griffin did come to view her with some affection, that wouldn't change the facts. When she completed the final book cover, she would return to her father and assist him at the shop. Mr. Griffin would remain here, taking rambling walks with Spartacus and hiding from a world who recoiled from his scars. Even if he chose to give up his reclusive habits, his parents would never approve of him marrying a woman like her. Poor, outspoken, and completely ignorant of societal rules and expectations.

Yet, their growing friendship need not lead to something romantic. Callista straightened her shoulders and did her best to ignore the sharp pang of disappointment the realization wrought. Her future might not align with his, but she still longed for him to have the most joyful future possible. One filled with friends and family, where the cobwebs of old pains and regret had been swept clean. She was rather handy with a broom. Perhaps she could help rid his soul of some of those cobwebs before she left. The assurance of his happiness would make her own easier to grasp.

Having sorted things out, Callista refocused on the project at hand and lined up a new piece of book board atop the base of the shear and raised the bladed arm to make the straight edge cut.

"Miss Rosenfeld?"

Callista's hand froze midair as she sucked in a quiet breath. It really was quite unfair of him to barge his way into her attention again when she'd just worked so hard to push him into the background. Yet, the predictable leap of her heart at the sound of his voice made it clear that all the logic and planning in the world wouldn't curb her pleasure at being in his presence.

Determined to conduct herself in a professional—and definitely not besotted—manner, she steadied her hand and finished her cut before turning to face him.

"Yes?"

Her gaze unerringly found the vivid blue of the eye not hidden by the patch. His eye really was the most extraordinary color. Almost turquoise. Yet the color wasn't what had her pulse picking up speed, it was the vulnerability glowing from its depths. She'd seen kindness, concern, embarrassment, and plenty of anger. But she'd never seen him nervous. It tugged on her heart in a way that had her moving toward him with hand outstretched before she even realized she'd taken a step.

"What is it? Has Mr. Lightfoot—"

"No. Ray is fine. He's resting. I just . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and dropped his gaze to the floor. "You asked me a question before the doctor arrived, and I didn't give you an answer." He lifted his chin and shyly met her gaze.

Callista's heart pounded so hard, she longed for a chair back or table to steady herself. With none in her immediate vicinity, she settled for widening her stance slightly and hoping her knees held.

Her question had been far too personal. She'd realized that about five minutes after he'd left the library. She should retract it. Keep a proper distance between them. But her heart wouldn't let her. She longed to know this man. Deeply and personally. Not simply to feed the attraction she felt toward him, but because she sensed that if he opened the door to her, it would be easier for him to open the door to others. It would give him freedom to face the world as himself and not a man cloaked in mystery and scandal.

So instead of hiding behind her own wall of safe propriety, she took her courage in hand and opened the gate, praying he wouldn't close it in her face.

"Do you have an answer for me now?"

"I . . . ah . . . There's about an hour left of good light . . . If you're still interested . . . I could show you some of my paintings."

Yes! She managed to keep the gleeful cry in her head and away from her tongue as she responded with more decorum.

"I would like that very much."

He smiled, and her heart flipped with the wild abandon of windblown book pages.

He offered her his arm as she imagined a gentleman would do for a lady at a ball or when taking a stroll through a manicured garden. She slid her fingers into the crook of his elbow, her breathing growing slightly ragged at the contact. It didn't help matters that she felt a shiver course through him as well when her hand slid over his sleeve. Hearing Mrs. Potter talk, Callista expected her employer to be quite accustomed to escorting women about, yet he reacted to her touch as if it were an entirely new experience—one that left him as shaken as it did her. The observation did nothing to strengthen her knees as she departed the library on his arm.

When they reached the stairs, he stepped aside and gestured for her to ascend ahead of him. Strange that she should miss the feel of his arm so keenly after such a brief connection, yet it seemed she'd acquired a craving for his touch. A rather imprudent development, to be sure, but one she found little motivation to dismantle.

At the third-floor landing, Callista pressed her back toward the wall so that Mr. Griffin could take the lead in entering the studio. This was a sacred space, and she wanted to honor his gift by taking nothing for granted.

His hand trembled slightly as he turned the knob, but the door opened, and they both stepped inside.