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I move forward to kiss him, but the dinging of the elevator makes me pause. Pulling back, he does the same, releasing my body from being trapped to the glass. Turning, I realize this is the first time in months I forgot there is a camera recording my every move. Blushing, I grab Branson’s outstretched hand. Stepping out of the elevator, I look down, mesmerized by the levels of books I see. We’re in a hallway that opens up on both sides into rows of books.
“Who had this built?” I ask, my voice breathless.
“Raiden's grandfather had it built for his wife. They both loved to read, she more than him. He has a full apartment here as well. His wife didn't care much for the spotlight this life entailed so he made this as a place for them to escape together in. We’re all welcome to use it, of course. You and I are the first besides them to ever come, though.”
My bottom lip slips out as my eyes sparkle. “That's so romantic. I mean, he literally built her a library. That right there is a man after my own heart.”
He steps closer to me, his hand reaching out to caress my cheek as his thumb rubs my bottom lip. “Is that what I have to do?” he asks huskily.
“What?” I whisper.
“To own your heart. I own every inch of you besides your heart. I’m very selfish, Darling. I want to own every single part of you. No exception. So, if building you a library will give me access to your heart, I’ll do it.”
Something in my chest sparks. As if it's coming alive for the first time ever. My first reaction is to douse the flame. Smother it until not a single ember burns but instead, I breathe upon it. Allowing oxygen to let it grow, let it grow big enough to start a forest fire. I peer up to him under my lashes. “How do you know you don't already have it?’
He smirks, dropping his hand from my face to wrap around my waist, pulling me flushed against him. “Do I?” he whispers.
“Ask me tomorrow.” Freeing myself, I begin exploring. Dream man or not, nothing would stop me from spending hours looking at books.
* * *
This library is insane. I knew it would take me over a year to even read every spine on just this level. Each section has a small plaque hanging above it. Fantasy Romance, Dark Romance, Contemporary, Rom-com, Chick Lit, Romantic Thrillers, Western Romance, LGBTQ+, Amish, and honestly, I didn't even know that was a thing. There is also Historical Romance. That is where I currently am when I feel Branson behind me, his body flushed to my backside as he slides an arm over my shoulder and his hand slips inside my neckline, grabbing my breast, squeezing it until a gasp spills past my lips.
“You cannot fondle me in front of these Jane Austen books,” I moan out.
“Why not?” He chuckles against my neck, biting down on my beating pulse.
“Because it's Jane Austen…” I trail off, because there really is no other explanation. Jane Austen. Duh.
“Let's eat, then maybe I can fondle you in front of Danielle Steel instead.”
I nod. “That would be more appropriate.”
He laughs, pulling me back into the hallway, leading me to a round room at the end. This room has raindrops falling outside the glass walls, a day bed in sea foam green sheets up against one wall, a nightstand and lamp to the left. Across from it is a roaring fireplace in off white, filigree running the length of it, and two white chaise lounges with a table between them.
Gasping, I spin in a circle to watch the water slip down the walls. “Oh my God.”
It's the only thing I can seem to say as Branson grabs my hand, leading me to the fur rug in front of the fireplace. A wide spread of food covers it. Fruits and cheeses, steak and potatoes, along with broccoli, which has me pausing. Most people have green beans which makes me want to gag, but it's still tradition. Both of us sink down to the exposed part of the rug, me gently so I don't rip my dress. Next time, I'll ask what we're doing. Yoga pants would have been more fitting to get lost in a library. Branson hands me a glass of white wine, which is my favorite, and he opts for red instead. He makes my plate for me, sitting it in front of me as movement out of the corner of my eye distracts me. I almost scream until I see the camera. Right. You're on a reality TV show, dummy.
We eat in a comfortable silence, the food melting on my tongue, almost causing an uncontrollable moan to escape.
“What are your plans for when the show is over?” Branson asks.
He studies me closely as I pop a grape in my mouth, pondering the question. “Survive. Move to a safer place. Find a decent job.” I shrug.
The truth is, I have no clue. Yes, I will do all those things, but I do want something more. More was easy to dream of when you were living this life. The life of the rich and famous. Out there in the real world would be different. Surviving would be my main priority.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You're not signing up for another season?”
“My contract is for one season. I guess we'll see.”
He nods, eyes still narrowed. “Tell me—”
I cut him off. “No, you tell me. I’m always answering questions, spilling my secrets, giving pieces. Where's the piece you promised me?”
He smirks. “What do you want to know?”
What did I want to know exactly? Is it worth getting to know someone I would eventually leave? My heart is already a goner, it makes sense to jump. To drown in the heartache that is inevitable. “What's your hobbies? You know, things you like to do that take the scowl off your face?”
