He looks up when I walk in, sliding thick, red-tinted, science fiction–like goggles to the top of his head. “Princess. This is surprising. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need your help.”
He chuckles. “Oh how the mighty have fallen. I love it. How can I be of service?”
I’ve never met another man who could so artfully convey in his tone the opposite of what his words mean. Sarcasm, thy name is Willard.
“Sarah’s pissed off at me.”
The corner of his mouth ticks upward.
“Sarah rarely gets angry and when she does it never sticks. Did you kick a puppy?”
“No. I broke one of her books.”
He freezes in place and his voice is stunned into softness.
“Which one?”
My intestines squirm with shame. “Sense and Sensibility.”
“Why . . . would you do that?”
I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t mean to . . . I lost my temper—”
“Get out.”
He takes the goggles off his head, slamming them onto the table.
“No, you don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly. What you don’t seem to comprehend is that Sarah is my best friend. The only one I’ve got. I’m not fucking helping you. Piss off, Princess.”
He turns to walk away.
And I shout, “She’s hurt!”
That makes him pause mid-step, his back stiffening.
“I haven’t just made her angry, I’ve hurt her terribly. She’s still hurting . . . and I can’t stand it, Willard.” My hands find their way into my hair.
I move in front of him, bending my knees to catch his eyes, which seems quite apropos.
“Help me make it better. Not for me, but for her. Please.”
Willard regards me for several moments. And then he sighs.
“What do you need?”
“I need your connections, your contacts. I need to find a book.”
After a three-hour drive, Willard and I stand in a cramped, dusty rare-book shop between two boarded-up buildings, one block from a homeless encampment. Under the suspicious eyes of the shop owner, I check out the merchandise.
It feels like a drug deal.
“What do you think?”
Willard speaks around the large, curved pipe between his lips.
“Depends. What do you think, Princess?”
I turn the shiny first edition of Sense and Sensibility over in my latex-gloved hands—the owner insisted. Carefully, I flip through the pristine pages . . . with Sarah’s soft, airy voice in my head—from the very first time we met, in that pub more than a year ago.
“The only thing that smells better than a new book is an old one.”
I put the book down.
“This isn’t it. She’d want a book that’s been read—dog-eared and held and sighed over—not one that’s been caged in glass its whole life. She’ll want one that’s been loved.”
Ever so slowly, Willard smiles. “There’s hope for you yet.”
I step over the threshold of Anthorp Castle at two in the morning—exhausted and, yet, triumphant. The rooms are still and empty, all of my guests greedily sucking at the tit of beauty sleep. I head for the stairs, but a form steps out from the music room—and a voice.
“You missed two call times today.”
Not as empty as I thought.
I turn to face Vanessa, still in her pantsuit and heels, a scotch and soda in her hand.
“I had something important to take care of.”
“More important than the show?”
I would laugh, but I’m too damn tired.
“Much more, yes.”
She sips her drink as she steps toward me, deliberately. “We needed those shots, Henry.”
“You’ll get them tomorrow.”
Her lips pucker like her drink’s gone sour. “You’ll be in the dining room, dressed and ready to have breakfast with Princess Alpacca, at six a.m. sharp, is that clear? I’ve whipped more difficult talent than you into shape, Your Highness. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll remember that.”
My shoulders straighten, and my voice drops low, and without even trying . . . I sound just like my father. “I’m not talent, Vanessa—and I don’t respond well to orders. For the sake of your show, you really ought to try remembering that.”
I’M A COWARD. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does.
I’m a fool. That’s new. And bothersome.
By the evening —or morning, I guess would be more accurate—I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and come to grips with these cold, hard truths. Henry broke my book and that’s upsetting, but that’s not why I’ve kicked him out and refused to see him. It’s not why I’ve rejected his apology.
It’s because of the kiss. I keep thinking about it, no matter how desperately I try to forget—my lips still tingle with the remembered caress of his mouth. It was more lovely than I’d imagined or hoped it could be. My stomach spun and my head went light, and my heart thudded fast and thrilled like I was going to die—while feeling the most alive I’d ever felt.
Because I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to kiss him back. And I didn’t want to stop at just a kiss. I wanted to push myself against him and feel the bulging strength of him everywhere. His stunning arms surrounding me, his large hands touching me. I wanted to know the hard press of his chest against my breasts, the taut, flat plane of his stomach, the bite of his hips against mine as he covered me on the bed.