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Taylor

CHAPTER SIX

A Week Later

I decide to treat myself to a book for my twenty-third birthday. It’s a small indulgence, but I can’t even remember the last time I bought myself something. No one knows what day it is—not Bonnie, nor Jackie, nor Mrs. Marshall. I’ve never put much stock in celebrations, but my dad did, and since this is the first birthday I’m spending without him, I decide to make it special: I’ll buy something I love and eat a cupcake.

I only need to be at my employer’s house by lunchtime because it’s rare for her to ask me to come in the morning.

Half an hour later, I still haven’t decided which book to pick. I’m wandering around the aisles of Barnes I’m looking for something real. One day, maybe I’ll tell my grandkids how my Jane Austen collection got that “ding.”

“Taylor?” says a powerful voice that’s been haunting me in very inappropriate dreams lately.

Before I even raise my head, I wonder if every single time I run into this man will be under embarrassing circumstances. Right now, I’m literally at William Marshall IV’s feet, and I have to make a huge effort not to look up. But the urge to see that gorgeous face again wins out.

“Mr. Marshall, how are you?” I ask.

God, I’m such an actress. Anyone watching me down here, greeting him with the manners of a Swiss finishing-school graduate, would never guess that this man has already seen me naked—and accused me of being his father’s mistress.

To my surprise, he offers me his hand to help me up. I think he notices my astonishment because he gives me something close to a smile.

“I’m not going to attack you,” he says.

I give him a sweet, sarcastic smile in return. “You can’t blame me for being unsure. You did threaten to throw me out of your grandmother’s house.”

I suspect any other man would feel awkward being reminded of that, but he seems unshakeable. “Would you rather stay at my feet, Taylor?”

The answer sits on the tip of my tongue, but I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying it. I don’t want to lose my job at Mrs. Marshall’s; since he’s her grandson, a minimum level of civility between us is necessary.

I accept the hand he offers, but the moment our skin touches, a shiver runs through me and I pull away almost immediately. If he notices how much his touch affects me, he hides it well.

Standing up, I stare at the box set in my hands like I’m hypnotized by it.

“Is there some secret game I don’t know about, where we’re only supposed to meet in places full of books?” he asks, surprising me with the playful reference to the fact that the first time we met, I was in the repurposed-library suite.

“Do you even know the concept of ‘playful’?” I blurt, unable to stop myself, since back at his grandmother’s house he seemed grumpy and arrogant, like someone who never jokes around.

“Only in passing.”

I lower my head so he won’t see I’m smiling. I really don’t want to like this man.

“Or maybe fate decided we should keep meeting in embarrassing situations,” he says.

“For me, right?” I mutter, looking at him again.

Once again, he shows no hint that barging into the bathroom and catching me naked ever made him feel guilty.

Without any ceremony, he takes the box set from my hands and examines it. “Aren’t you a little too young to enjoy Jane Austen?”

“No one’s too young—or old—to appreciate Jane Austen. You just have to know what’s good. And I’m not that young. I’m twenty-two,” I reply, leaving out the fact that today is my twenty-third birthday. “It was nice seeing you, sir. I need to go.”

I try to walk past him, but I’m left speechless when he takes hold of my arm. He isn’t hurting me—he’s burning my skin. That firm, deliberate touch makes my pulse spike crazily.

“There’s no need to lie,” he says.

“What?”

“It wasn’t nice to see me. You’re still mad.”

I take a deep breath before replying. I could pretend he’s wrong, but why bother, when William’s already sized me up perfectly? “I am.”

“Because I saw you naked or because I accused you of being my father’s mistress?”

“Both.”

“I made a mistake. Once again, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For accusing you of being one of my father’s women.”

Not for seeing me naked. Good Lord, how can one man be such a jerk and still be so sexy?

“This bookstore isn’t too far from your work?” he comments. “You don’t have much time before you have to be at my grandmother’s house.”

“You know my schedule?”

“I know everything about Maryann’s life.”

Don’t say anything, Taylor.

“It didn’t look that way during my first few weeks on the job,” I remark, ignoring my inner angel. I guess I have a social death wish.

“I was away for work, but I knew she’d hired you. Or rather, hired another companion.”

“And it never crossed your mind that might’ve been me when you saw me that day?”

“No. I assumed she’d have gotten someone older, like Bonnie.” His gaze takes a long, deliberate walk down my body, as if there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t, which is somehow even more provocative than if he’d spelled it out.

“I really need to go,” I repeat.

“You haven’t explained why you came to a bookstore so far from your work.”

“You know where I live?”

“I do, but don’t take it personally. Like I said, I keep track of everything that concerns my grandmother.” He nods at the box set in my hands. “You’re going to buy those?”

“Yes.”

“Let me pay for them, as a way of apologizing for how I treated you.”

A warning light goes off in my mind—not so much because of what he’s saying but how he’s looking at me. I doubt he’s typically this polite unless he has an ulterior motive—seduction, maybe. He’s probably interested because he’s seen me naked.

“No, thank you,” I reply, yanking my arm away. “I’m buying these for myself. Today’s my birthday, and I decided to do something indulgent: eat a cupcake and treat myself to these lovely books. Have a great day, Mr. Marshall.”

I practically sprint toward the cashier. When I get there, I glance back and realize William has turned too, watching me. My heart, already pounding abnormally since I first spotted him, nearly skips a beat.

The cashier calls for my attention, and after I pay, I look over my shoulder again to see if he’s still there. He isn’t. Like a mirage, he’s vanished.

I almost laugh at the comparison, but then I figure that’s exactly what Mrs. Marshall’s grandson will always be to me: an illusion that could never exist in the same world as mine.

1 ? Leo Tolstoy romance.

2 ? British Writer. Her novels are considered Literature Classics.