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“I will not.”
There’s another pause before she takes a breath in and says, “After dinner, I climb into my pj’s, put on my comfortable slippers, make myself a coffee”—she shrugs—“or wine…”
“Wine sounds good,” I offer.
“And then I crash on the sofa and either read a book for a while or watch a movie.”
“And why would I laugh at that?” I ask.
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Because it’s the most boring existence ever.”
Beatrice wanders into the entrance hall just as I’m about to reply. “Mr. Steele, Mrs. Steele,” she says. Like everyone else in the town, she actually thinks this is real. “Dinner will be served in ten minutes.”
“Thank you, Beatrice,” I say.
“Thank you,” Emma adds.
When the housekeeper disappears, Emma turns back to me with a smile. “I could get used to this.”
My heart leaps as she strides past me toward the stairs. I know it’s only a flippant remark, but still. I want to give this woman everything. My heart, my soul, my home. If only she would let me.
After dinner, Emma disappears up to her room again, and I go down to the wine cellar and pick a bottle of Chablis Grand Cru Les Clos Louis Michel. I’ve convinced her to get into her pj’s. We’re meeting back in the library, where she’ll have a choice of books.
She’s grinning when she walks in. “Don’t laugh,” she says, pulling her dressing gown around a light gray pair of pajamas.
I’m pretty sure I won’t—until I see the slippers she’s wearing.
“Are they… rabbits?” I gawk, swallowing down a chuckle.
The thick slippers cover her entire feet, and at the front, floppy ears bounce up and down with every step she takes.
“They’re warm and comfortable,” she counters, her grin of embarrassment obvious.
“Sure, they are,” I reply, handing her a glass of the Chablis.
The library is not unlike the rest of the house in the fact that it looks like you’ve just walked into an episode ofDownton Abbey. Dark wood lines the walls, hardwood shelves run from floor to ceiling, a huge fireplace on the far wall houses a roaring fire, and dotted about the place are antique tables and table lamps that would fetch a pretty penny at Sotheby’s. Brown studded leather sofas are placed strategically, but so strategically that they look like someone just left them there with little thought.
“So, what are you in the mood for?” I ask as I approach her.
Taking her elbow, the one that doesn’t have a wine glass attached to the end of her arm, I guide her to the shelves.
“We’ve got the classics over here.” I gesture to a huge area of shelves. “Shaw, Shakespeare, Homer, not the Simpsons,” I quip, eliciting a giggle from her lips. “Dante, Virgil, Cervantes, Tolkien.”
I then lead her further around the room. “Or, if you’re into something a little lighter, we’ve got novels from Dahl, Christie, Wilde, Orwell, Woolf.” I then lead her a little further along. “These are horror books”—a little further than that—“Gothic novels”—a little further—“Romance novels.”
“Good heavens,” Emma gasps, her eyes wide as she takes in the shelves I haven’t even reached yet. “Who on Earth put this library together?”
I’m still standing close to her, and I can smell coconut and ginger softly floating toward me. The fire is reflected in her eyes, making them look even more alive than usual. At this moment, I could not care less about the library, but clearly, she’s waiting for me to answer while I’m lost in her gaze.
“The house has been in my family for generations,” I say. “So, it’s been an influence of all the Steeles over the years.”
She nods back towards the classics. “Have you read any of them?”
I smirk at her. “Is this a test?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m just curious.”
“Curious, or wondering whether a bad boy like me could ever have read books of such depth?”