Page 59 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

But now here he is, lowering himself into the seat opposite mine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He’s in dark jeans, a black hoodie, and boots, looking maddeningly at ease. His hair is styled back, though a few strands have fallen over his forehead.

He doesn’t speak. He simply pulls out his books, opens one, and begins to read.

For a fleeting moment I can’t help but wonder, why me? There are plenty of other tables. But when I glance around, I see most of them are already taken. Even so, he could have sat elsewhere. With anyone else. He didn’t have to sit here.

I wish he hadn’t.

It’s almost as if he can hear my thoughts. He looks up from his book, his mouth tilts in a cruel approximation of a smile.

“Don’t read too much into it. I’m not here for the company. You just know how to keep your mouth shut and not bother me.”

I look away from his infuriating face and do exactly that, keep my mouth shut, or rather force it shut.

In my mind, though, I picture myself leaping across the table and throttling him until he chokes on his arrogance.

I give a small shake of my head and fix my eyes back on my book instead.

After working through a few more pages of notes, I rise and make my way between the rows of shelves in search of a particular volume on animal behaviour.

The library here is nothing short of magnificent, soaring shelves that demand ladders to reach their highest tiers, it’s the sort of place that could make even the most jaded soul feel like a reader again.

I spot the book I’m after and rise onto the tips of my toes to reach it. My fingers barely touch the spine when a solid chest brushes against my back.

A hand reaches past mine, his skin grazing my knuckles before he slips the book from the shelf.

He doesn’t hand it to me. He simply holds it.

I turn slowly, his scent filling my senses.

My eyes catch on his chest first, before I force myself to look higher, past his throat, his jaw, until I reach his stare.

He must be over six foot two, and at my five foot three, I have to tilt my head back just to meet his look.

He’s watching me. His jaw is tense, like I’ve somehow offended him, yet his eyes… there’s hunger there.

A swarm of butterflies stirs in my stomach, and I nearly wince at myself for it.

Die, please.

This man is not butterfly material.

He can’t seem to stay away, but that doesn’t mean his hatred has softened.

I hold his stare, forcing myself to look composed while the heat inside me betrays it.

“Don’t do that,” he grits out.

“Do what?” I ask, genuinely lost.

He reaches up, his fingers brushing my chin as he pulls my bottom lip free from between my teeth.

“Stop biting your lip.”

“Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it, because I can’t seem to think of anything else to say, too caught in his stare, too unable to focus on anything beyond him.

“Because.” His voice drops lower as he leans in, one arm braced against the wall, caging me in, the book still held in his other hand.