Page 35 of A Star is Scorned

The second she entered the library, the constricted feeling in Livvy’s chest released.

Joan and Arlene had been so kind, hurrying her away to the kitchen and plying her with punch and toffee.

But it had been hard to breathe in their company.

All she could think was how they had three Oscars between them.

They fretted over her, never prying or asking a single question about Flynn, trying to put her at ease.

But when a dreadful man with hands that wandered more than Christopher Columbus had come in and tried to cajole her into bobbing for apples with him, she couldn’t take it anymore.

She’d made an excuse about needing to find Flynn and scampered off.

She should have gone home. But while looking for Flynn, she’d happened upon the library at the end of the hall.

The thick door turned the music in the living room into a muffled din.

She turned in a circle, marveling at the room before her.

Every wall was covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves, books of all shapes and sizes spilling out of them.

She inhaled, taking in the scent of the dusty tomes, the distinctive tang of the glue holding the pages together in each of the individual treasures.

She was inclined to think they were for show, except that she could tell the difference between untouched books and a well-loved library.

This was obviously the latter, with books haphazardly stuffed into crannies where they clearly didn’t belong and busts of authors like Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde serving as makeshift bookends.

A lumpy armchair covered with burnt-orange velvet was stuck in the corner, and Livvy wandered toward it.

Her eye caught on the book hanging over the arm of the chair, a well-worn copy of Treasure Island whose spine had more cracks than an unlucky piece of pavement.

Livvy admired the pair of slippers stuck under the chair and the tartan blanket tucked over its back.

Everything about the space was cozy and comforting.

On one side of the chair was a globe. Livvy pressed a small wooden button hidden in the grain of the wooden stand, and the top of the globe snapped open, revealing a collection of liquor bottles, ice tongs, and crystal glasses.

She picked up a crystal tumbler and sniffed it.

It reminded her of Flynn’s favorite Scotch, which she hadn’t even realized she’d known until this moment.

It was smoky and warm, a strange blend of cinnamon and pine. It smelled like him.

“Pilfering the good stuff?” The voice in the doorway startled Livvy so much that she bobbled the glass in her hands, struggling not to drop it. She could tell that it was expensive from its heft and clarity.

“No, I was just—” She turned and lost her train of thought at the sight of Flynn.

He was leaning against the doorjamb, his blond hair messy from its time spent under his Captain Hook wig.

He must have rubbed his mustache; it now looked like a smear of soot across his face.

But the kohl around his eyes was still perfect, and her knees turned to jelly when he gave her a smolder.

“I was only teasing. What are you doing down here? I was worried you might’ve left.”

She set the glass down, suddenly awkward in the room that had been so comforting only moments before. “I was…looking for the bathroom.” She surprised herself with how quickly the lie came. “But I was leaving.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “But you can’t leave yet.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I want you to stay. Please.”

His plea made her warm and tingly, like she’d knocked back a glass of that whiskey in the globe. “I didn’t think you’d miss me. You have so many guests. And your friends. You’d hardly notice if I left.”

His eyes flared with something dangerous. “I assure you, I would notice. And I would feel the loss of your presence most keenly.”

Had someone turned a radiator on in this room? It was suddenly sweltering. A bead of sweat dripped down her back, and she resisted the urge to fan herself. “Well, I…got overwhelmed.”

“So you decided to find some reading material?” He grinned, something wicked and irresistible there, and she found herself taking a step toward him as if pulled in his direction by an invisible force.

“This library is incredible.”

“Being an aristocrat oughta be good for something.” He pushed off the doorway casually, stalking into the room, and she prayed he didn’t hear her gulp.

“You inherited all this?” she squeaked.

“Some of it. Other parts I bought myself. I know you think I’m a philistine—”

“I don’t!”

“But ‘the person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.’”

She had not expected this evening to involve Flynn Banks quoting Jane Austen to her. “You’ve read Northanger Abbey?”

“And Pride and Prejudice. Though Emma is my favorite.” He started trawling the shelves, dropping leather-bound volumes gently to the floor as he hunted for something. He turned his head to her. “Always a fan of the cheeky ones, you know.”

He winked at her, sizing up her costume and the fuchsia blush that had suffused her neck and face. “You know green and pink is my favorite color combination.”

She barked out a laugh. “You’re making that up.”

“No, I’m not. I just decided right now that it’s my favorite. I’m allowed to do that. My library, my rules.” He returned to rummaging through his shelves. “You’re a fan of Austen, I take it?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“No,” he murmured drily, twisting around to give her a withering glance. But the twinkle in his eyes made it obvious he was teasing.

“Good. Because she’s my favorite author. She’s why I wanted to be a writer.”

Flynn peered at her as if he was seeing something clearly for the first time. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a writer.”

She raised one shoulder to her ear. It had been years since she’d expressed this dream to anyone.

Judy was the only one who knew. And Livvy had tried her darndest to convince her sister that she didn’t want it anymore.

“It was a childish dream. And sometimes being a grown-up means setting aside such things. Things like…crushes on silver screen swashbucklers.”

Flynn gave her a look that she felt all the way down to her toes. “Personally, I believe in indulging your childhood dreams.”

She stared at him as he ransacked his shelves, trying to work out the puzzle that was Flynn Banks.

An hour ago, he had challenged her to a sword fight that he knew he would lose.

Now, he was climbing ladders and pawing through books in search of something he wanted to show her.

What did he mean by encouraging her to indulge in childhood dreams?

That he wanted her to have a crush on him?

He was charming and roguish and all the things she knew him to be, but there was something different too. Something, dare she say, unsure? Maybe even something…sweet? “I’m surprised more of your guests don’t hide out in here.”

“Well, as you so aptly pointed out the night we met, Hollywood isn’t exactly known for its literary luminaries.”

She cringed, remembering how priggish she had been. But he wasn’t paying attention to her as he continued rooting through the shelves.

“It has to be here somewhere.” He returned to the floor and crossed to a shelf on the far side of the room.

“Ah, here we go.” He climbed the ladder again and blew the dust off a leather-bound volume.

It had been nestled in a stack of books that appeared to be at least fifty years old.

He held it out to Livvy while he grabbed for two more volumes still on the shelf.

She approached him gingerly and reached up to take it.

Her hands were shaking, and she didn’t think it was only because of what she suspected he was handing her.

She clasped the honey-bound book in her hands, turning it over to study the spine with a red leather-embossed I.

An involuntary gasp escaped her lips as she read the title, embossed above the I, this time on black leather. Pride and Prejudice.

“Is this what I think it is?” she whispered, her voice hushed.

Flynn jumped down with the grace of an acrobat, holding the other two volumes, which he presented to her with a mock bow. “That depends. Do you think it’s a first edition of Pride and Prejudice? Because then, the answer is yes.”

“I can’t believe you have this. In your house.”

“Not like I earned it or anything,” he muttered, suddenly looking a bit bashful. “It’s been in the family since 1813.”

She nearly dropped the book at that. Only her sense that she was holding a precious object kept her clinging tightly to it. “You mean, someone in your family bought this when it was first published?”

He shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anyone in my family read it, mind you. The Banks family has always been more interested in stocking their shelves with impressive tomes than it has been in reading them.”

“Until you, you mean.” She gestured around at the well-loved library.

He did blush then, and she was shocked at how much it pleased her to make him feel as unsettled as he did her.

“My mother loved to read to me as a boy. Whenever I was looking for her, she’d be in the library.

And she read to me every night before bed.

Never mind that my father raised hell about it.

‘The nanny can do it,’ he always said. But my mother never missed a single night.

Not until they sent me off to boarding school.

And then, well, she—” He paused, his voice choked with emotion, and her heart sank.

She reached out her hand and gently placed it atop his. “I’m so sorry, Flynn.” She knew the stricken look on his face well. It was one she’d seen on Judy and herself these last four years. No matter what your relationship with them, losing a parent was hard.