Page 35 of The Rust in Her Hair

"Okay." He's already reaching for his badge, energy shifting into something eager. "Okay, yeah. Come on."

The library's only been open for a few minutes. The main hall is quiet except for a handful of early risers making their way through the massive entryway.

Dark mahogany shelves stretch two stories up to a coffered ceiling, brass reading lamps lining every table, and a stained-glass window at the far end throwing colored light across the marble floor.

It smells like old paper and lemon polish.

Owen leads me toward the front desk, where a woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses pushed up into her curls looks up from her monitor.

"Morning, Owen." She smiles.

"Morning, Marguerite." He rests one arm on the counter.

"Everything still standing?" Her dark brows lift.

"That's what I'm here to find out."

"I heard the cleaning crew was here till four a.m." She shakes her head, typing something without looking down. "Someone spilled a six-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne on the couch outside special collections."

Owen winces, but his shoulders drop with relief. "As long as it's the couch and not the cases."

"Cases are fine. I already checked." Her eyes cut to me, quick and assessing, taking in my flannel shirt, the boots, and the sawdust caked around the laces.

I get it. I don't exactly scream library patron.

Owen catches her look before I can say anything. "This is my friend Adrian,” he says easily. "I'm taking him back to see the exhibit."

Friend.

"Nice to meet you, Adrian," Marguerite says, already turning back to her screen.

"You too."

Owen's hand finds the small of my back for half a second, steering me toward the hallway.

I hate that he never says mate or husband. Just my name, floating out there with nothing attached to it, like I could be anybody. A friend. A roommate. Nobody in particular.

I hate it every single time. But there's no helping it.

Owen says goodbye to Marguerite, then he leads me down a long corridor branching off from the main stacks. The light is dimmer down here, older.

"The ballroom's this way," he says, smoothing the collar of his polo.

I let my eyes drop to his ass, taking in the sight of my gorgeous mate. The fabric of his jeans pulls snug with every step, and I quickly look away before I get too worked up.

You’re in public, I remind myself. Behave.

I really wish I had gotten to see him in that tux.

The air changes about halfway down the hall. Faint and sweet, something underneath the polish and old paper smell of the rest of the building.

Vanilla.

And toasted almonds.

It's too clean to be perfume or air freshener.

It’s probably a student's natural scent, or one of the staff. But I like it. A lot.