by Olivia Dade
The librarian drew a name out of the women’s hat. After glancing at the slip of paper, she took a deep breath. “It’s me,” she said with a strained smile. “And my partner is . . .”
Me. Me. Let it be me, thought Jack.
“. . . Julian.”
Shit.
Red Tie immediately protested. “But you weren’t even supposed to be part of this. Why don’t I read with her?” He pointed at Skintight Dress, who frowned back at him.
Penelope looked discomfited. “Later in the evening, people can choose their own partners, Julian. For now, let’s just—”
“You didn’t come here to meet someone tonight. I did. So I want to read with”—he took a long time peering at Skintight Dress’s nametag, which she’d stuck on the top of her dress, right over her breast—“Courtney.”
Jesus, what a dick. No matter whether the librarian wanted to read with Red Tie or not—and he’d be willing to bet “not”—no woman wanted to be passed over in favor of another. In front of a crowd, no less. The pale skin of her upper chest had turned pink, and she was looking down at the floor. He couldn’t see her face, only the top of her head and the short wisps of brown hair there. A pixie cut, he’d heard it called. Appropriate, since she resembled a pretty elf in that green dress.
Red Tie was a moron. Even if she’d engineered this entire train wreck of a gathering, the little librarian was clearly the prize in the room.
“I’ll read with you,” Jack found himself saying to Penelope.
“If Courtney agrees, you can both read with her,” Penelope finally said, her voice quiet. “It’s okay. Julian’s right. I wasn’t even supposed to be part of the events tonight, except as a host.”
“No offense to Courtney. I’m sure she’s a wonderful woman,” Jack said, “but I want to read with you. Only you.”
To his surprise, he meant it. He’d been sitting in the cushioned chair, listening to the scenes everyone else had chosen. But he hadn’t looked at them. No, he’d watched her, at least when he’d thought she wouldn’t notice. Wondering what book passage she’d pick and what it might say about her. Wondering how her skin would feel under his fingers. It looked soft. Delicate, like her.
Sure, he blamed her for planning this ridiculous event. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the view. And to be honest, the longer he looked at her, the less irritated he felt.
“Oh, but I didn’t prepare anything,” she said. “I’m filling in for another librarian tonight, and I never imagined I’d need to participate.”
“You’re in a library, dear,” Brenda said. “Go pick a book now, while our friends Julian”—she scowled at him—“and Courtney do their scene.”
“But—” Penelope began again.
“Run along, Penny,” said Brenda. “I’ll take care of things here.”
Jack knew that tone. There was no use protesting. Clearly, the librarian realized it too, since she got up and walked into the stacks. Which reminded him . . . “I need to go get a book too,” he told his mother, beginning to rise.
“No, you don’t,” Brenda replied. “I picked one for you.”
“God help me,” he muttered, and settled back into his seat.
Penelope reemerged with a hardcover in her hands several minutes later, just as Red Tie and Skintight Dress finished their scenes. As she sat back down in her chair, she glanced Jack’s way and caught him looking at her. Her cheeks flushed again, though she didn’t seem embarrassed anymore. She looked . . . confused.
His eyes dropped to the book she held. The cover had . . . was that a flower on the front? It was. And it looked familiar. Too familiar. Fuck. In a library full of books, why had she chosen that one? Why had she chosen the debut novel of John Williamson, reclusive bestselling author?
John Williamson. Christ Almighty. John Williamson, otherwise known to his friends and family as Jack Williamson. Divorced father of a four-year-old daughter named Casey. Son to a conniving mother. Reluctant participant in bizarre library games.
Right now, she was holding a book he’d written in her small hand. The only question was: Did she know it? And if she didn’t, when would she realize it?
“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you,” Jack said, his voice deep and calm. “Especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.... I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.”
Jane Eyre. Jane fucking Eyre. For his love scene, he’d somehow chosen one of Penny’s two favorite books in the world, alongside the one she held in her own hand. It wasn’t enough that his impassive green eyes burned through her. It wasn’t enough that the shifting of his muscles beneath his jeans mesmerized her. No, he had to go and pick Jane Eyre, the tale of a small, quiet woman with fierce inner strength and the ability to love with passionate loyalty.
After Penny had discovered her last boyfriend’s infidelity, she’d printed out a quotation from Jane Eyre and taped it to her bathroom mirror. The sentences had echoed in her ears, resounded in her heart.
Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you.
For months, she’d looked at those pained, proud words. Every morning. Every night. Until the day she’d decided on her New Year’s resolution: No men for a year. She was giving herself a chance to get her head straight. By next New Year’s Eve, she hoped she was no longer attracted to men who didn’t value her enough. Ones who found her poor, obscure, plain, and little. More importantly, she hoped she no longer thought of herself that way.
After making the resolution, she’d torn down the paper from the mirror, vowing never to need that quotation again. Funny. Seeing Jack tonight . . . those words had come back to her. All evening, she’d thought, If I had more beauty, I would make it as hard for you to ignore me as it is for me to ignore you.
Right before he’d begun to read, he’d introduced himself. Jack Williamson was indeed Brenda’s son. He was also a divorced accountant who worked from home to minimize the time his four-year-old daughter spent in daycare. Thirty-five, like her. Incredibly striking, unlike her.
He didn’t resemble any accountant she’d ever met. If all of them looked like this, stampedes of women would rush to get their taxes done as early and often as possible. E-filing numbers would drop dramatically. Tax preparation businesses would have to install barricades and hire security. Because what woman wouldn’t want to stare at a man like Jack while he was crunching numbers?
Silence. Penny looked up to see everyone watching her. Waiting. Oh, right. She was supposed to be reading, not remembering her own stupid mistakes. Not mooning over a man who seemed to dislike her. Even if he’d gone out of his way to protect her from the brunt of Red Tie’s boorishness.
“I grieve to leave Thornfield,” Penny read. “I love Thornfield—I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,—momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. . . . I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,—with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”
She reached the end of the scene Jack had chosen. She now found herself unable to look at him. Unable to say anything. Afraid that the look on her face, whatever words she might use, would give away how deeply connected she felt to him in that moment. How absolutely compelling she found him.
“The Pirate Master and His Precious Booty was better,” m
uttered Clarence.
“No joke,” Red Tie said. “Look, can we just get to the next game? This is getting boring.”
She looked at the book in her hand, evaluating the situation. The passage she’d chosen was wonderful, and she always loved sharing it with others. John Williamson wrote beautifully about love, his prose abounding with grace and lyricism.
Then again, reading with Jack again might very well kill her. Spontaneous combustion sometimes occurred because of extraordinary male hotness, right? She really shouldn’t risk turning into a pile of ash and a grease mark. The library couldn’t afford to buy new chairs.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll stop there.”
Jack looked directly at her, frowning. It was pretty much the same expression he’d had all night. Except . . . was that disappointment in his eyes? Relief? She couldn’t tell, honestly.
Something occurred to her. “Wait a second,” she said. “We still need to hear why Jack picked this particular passage.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “My mother did.”
The crowd laughed, and Penny’s heart gave a twinge.
“Oh.” She averted her face, trying to hide how it fell at his words.
“But my mom knows me better than I thought. That was exactly the scene I would have chosen.”
Penny turned back to him. “Why?” she asked. “Why that particular passage?”
He hesitated, seeming unsure for the first time all night. “The sense of connection between Jane and Rochester, I guess. The longing. The pain. The joy in having found someone who understands you, who delights in you, who sees you. Even when no one else does.”
She understood completely. He’d listed the same reasons she loved that scene in Jane Eyre. He’d used the same words she’d have chosen.
In doing so, he’d also confirmed how entirely dangerous he was to her peace of mind. Being seen as less than enough by her previous boyfriends had hurt her badly. But they’d never truly understood her heart or mind. Being seen as less than enough by a man who did . . . it would destroy her. Utterly.
So she would avoid him the rest of the night. No more pairing up with him for the games. No more glances across the room. No more temptation to break the most important New Year’s resolution of her life.
4
“So Penny and Jack will be a pair for this game,” Brenda said. God bless you, Mom, Jack thought. Have all the horrifyingly kinky sex you want. I won’t say a word, as long as you’re safe and happy.
He stared across the room, willing Penelope to meet his eyes. She glanced at him for a brief moment before she turned to her papers, shuffling them. It was the first time she’d looked at him in over an hour. He knew. He’d been watching her the entire time.
What exactly had happened during that reading of Jane Eyre? As they’d spoken Charlotte Brontë’s words together, he’d felt somehow tied to her. Connected. At one point, he’d looked up from the book to see Penelope, a woman who’d seemed inconsequential upon first glance. Small. Quiet. Unassuming. But her lovely eyes had blazed with intelligence, stubbornness, and passion, especially as she’d read Jane’s words.
Those eyes had bored into him like nothing he’d ever known. When they’d finished his passage and she’d begun to reach for the book he’d written, he’d found himself caught between fear and exhilaration. He didn’t want her to recognize him. He couldn’t stand the thought of being put through the media wringer yet again. At the same time, though, he wanted her to know him through his own words. He wanted her to see him as no one outside his family had done for years. Not since his marriage. Maybe not even during his marriage.
So when she’d set the book aside, he’d breathed a sigh of relief even as a pang shot through his heart. Since then, she’d chatted and made eye contact with everyone. Obviously shy, she’d still managed to keep the group on track and in good spirits. Even Red Tie, asshole extraordinaire. Even Pretend Pirate Clarence. Even Skintight Dress, whose outfit appeared to shrink still further each hour they spent in the library. By the end of the evening, he fully expected the woman to be wearing nothing but a thong and a set of pasties.
Yes, Penelope quietly charmed everyone. Everyone but Jack.
Him, she crossed the room to avoid.
Him, she refused to look at.
Him, she didn’t address. Didn’t touch. Didn’t acknowledge.
It was beginning to piss him off. Big time. He’d actually looked forward to the goddamn speed dating activity, figuring it would force her to interact with him. But she’d bowed out, noting that only one man would sit without a partner for each four-minute interval. “I’m sure you guys wouldn’t mind one short breather in the middle of the game, right?” she’d said, smiling at all the men. All the men except him, that is.
Much to his disgust, he’d found himself talking with ten or so perfectly nice women about nothing of consequence. Yeah, a couple of them had tried to get him to answer the stupid question about the weirdest place he’d had sex, but no way was he giving out that information. He’d found that an unamused expression and a few seconds of silence shut down that line of inquiry quickly. So they ended up talking about the weather and their plans for the New Year.
He suspected a conversation with Penelope would proceed very differently. Already, he could tell that the two of them shared a lot of the same characteristics. They both loved books. Given the choices they’d made for the first game, apparently they even loved the same books. Neither of them enjoyed crowds. He could tell that about her, even though she was trying her hardest to play the gracious host. Each time she addressed them as a group, she took a deep breath and stiffened her shoulders. And each time she could retreat to the background once again, she exhaled and those shoulders relaxed.
He admired the fact that she was trying, even though her position as hostess didn’t come naturally to her. It showed she cared about her job, about doing her best no matter the circumstances. He liked how she treated his mother, with respect and genuine kindness. He appreciated the flashes of humor she showed, displays that went unappreciated by most of the group. He respected her obvious intelligence.
No, more than that. Her intellect turned him on. Made him hungry.
So did the rest of her. He wanted to sift her soft brown wisps of hair through his fingers. He could stare at her pretty face for hours, admiring her pale skin, enormous brown eyes, and pink lips. And her body . . . Christ. She was sexy in a subtle, appealing way. He’d found his gaze traveling below her face more and more as the evening continued. Her green dress clung to her slim body in the right places. It emphasized her small, high breasts, the subtle curve of her hips. It stopped just above her knees, revealing killer legs.
She wasn’t flaunting herself. She didn’t move like a woman aware of her body and how it could entice men. He’d seen no posing. No affectation. Nothing but innocent beauty and sensuality. And it was arousing him more than he could have ever imagined. More than was comfortable.
For the past hour, Jack had found himself shifting in his chair, fighting an insistent throb in his cock. And that’s why there was no fucking way Cologne Guy was going to be her partner for the next game, despite the other man’s protests.
“That’s not fair, Brenda,” Cologne Guy whined. “Your son had her for the first game.”
“Yes, but some of the men in our group”—Brenda narrowed her eyes at Red Tie and Pretend Pirate Clarence—“interrupted their time together. She didn’t get to read her scene. It’s only fair that she be with Jack again for the next game.”
“I’m going to go talk to Penelope about this,” Cologne Guy said. “I know she’ll—”
Jack came up beside him and spoke quietly. “Don’t bother. She’s mine.”
His mother gave him a startled look. Then she smiled at him, as brightly as he’d seen in years. Her gaze searched for Carl, and when she found the older man, she headed in his direction.
Cologne Guy shook his head. “You didn’t even know her before tonight. Y
ou spent the first hour of the event glaring at her. She’s been avoiding you for the second hour. And now you’re saying she’s yours? Come on, buddy. Get serious.”
Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise. Cologne Guy was much more observant than Jack had suspected. Maybe he was onto something. Thinking back, he probably had scowled at her for the first part of the evening, tacitly reproaching her for planning the entire absurd event. He’d held her responsible for his sense of entrapment, even though none of it was her fault. He’d put all the blame for his unhappiness on her narrow shoulders.
She hadn’t deserved any of it. He’d figured out that the other librarian, the blonde one, must have planned the event. And even if Penelope had arranged the whole damn evening, she still wouldn’t have deserved a single moment of his anger. He’d ended up in this library on New Year’s Eve for a singles’ event because of his mother and his sense of obligation. Not because of his lovely little librarian.
If she’d noticed him glaring at her, could that explain her avoidance of him this past hour? Did she think he didn’t like her, that he was still angry at her? If so, he could fix the situation quickly, with just an apology and a few words of explanation.
He didn’t think it would prove so simple, though. She wasn’t avoiding Red Tie, despite the guy’s ongoing dickishness toward her. No, her reluctance to talk to or even look at Jack stemmed from more than just his earlier stupidity. Something about that Jane Eyre reading had upset her, even as it had aroused his interest.
So ask her what happened, you idiot, his brain urged. Pair up with her and force her to talk to you.
“That’s a good point,” he told Cologne Guy. “I was glaring at her. It was inexcusably rude. So I think I should take the opportunity to apologize to her while we play a game together.” He gave the sputtering man a friendly clap on the shoulder, heading across the room to Penelope.
