Page 9 of No Shelf Control
Lilah pauses what she's doing, her brows furrowing. "Maybe a little. Why?"
"I don't know." I shrug. "She was here yesterday for a while after you left, but she just kept checking her phone the whole time. It was weird."
"Maybe she's waiting for news on her car? It's still in the shop."
"No. I think she's seeing someone. At the library the other day, she was almost…giddy? She kept smiling and humming. When has Loralei ever been the humming type? She's almost as shy as Sarah."
Lilah turns slowly to face me, her eyes narrowed. "I know that tone, Jazz. Whatever you're thinking about doing, do not do it."
"What? I'm not thinking about doing anything," I protest. "I was just curious if you noticed it, too."
"Uh-huh." An exasperated smile flickers at her lips. "Leave the woman alone. If she's seeing someone, she'll tell us when she's ready. Don't stick your nose in it."
"Ugh." I scowl at her, pushing away from the bench. "Fine. You're no fun." What am I supposed to do with my life if I can't be nosy and pry into what my friends are doing with theirs? Harass River, right.
"Where are you going?"
"To see what I can dig up on River!"
"I'm not bailing you out!" she calls after me.
"I'm not going to jail!" I shout back.
Bright and early the next morning, I pull up outside the 1920s-era Spanish Colonial Revival at the very end of the block, two miles from the bookstore. The house is gorgeous, with a gabled roof and Terracotta pavers lining the driveway. River's Lincoln Navigator is parked out front where he left it yesterday.
I sit in my car for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts and figure out what I want to say, but I have a feeling it's a lost cause. As soon as I see him, we'll end up locked in the same battle we've been in since I cornered him in the library.
This is a problem. Mostly because, as much as I hate to admit it, I've been dreaming about the infuriating man. Last night, he cuffed and arrested me, and then did filthy shit to me in the back of a squad car. I woke up right before he made me orgasm. I'm still pissed about that, by the way.
I don't like him, but I can't deny being attracted to him. Anyone with eyes would be attracted to him. Not to mention, he's written some of the most incredible books.
I just can't wrap my mind around how a man as infuriating as him can write like he does. I feelseenwhen I read his books…and then I stand in front of him and cannot fathom how the irritating man in front of me is possibly the same one who had me sobbing into a bowl of Cheerios at three in the morning, while Letty, a single mom from Kansas, fell to her knees, screaming on the battlefield where Caladan, an alien prince from Occunia, had fallen to protect her son.
Make it make sense!
It doesn't. Which means either there is far more to him than he's shown me…or he's a wizard. There are no other viable options here.
For the record, I'm going with the wizard theory. The less I know about him, the better. I want to actually be able to continue reading his books once this is over and done with. And heroes are nothing if not disappointing when you get to know them in reality.
It's far easier to skip that whole mess and just make up a story…which is precisely why he's a middle-aged, anxiety-riddled college professor in my head.
He's making it damn hard to hang onto the vision.
I mutter a curse under my breath and climb from the car. My heels click on the pavers as I hurry up the driveway, determined to figure out, once and for all, what his actual problem with meeting readers is, so I can solve it and we can get this thing done. Then I can go back to thinking he's a boring college professor, and all my problems will be solved. Easy, right?
I press the doorbell with the sinking suspicion that it will not, in fact, be that easy.
Chapter Four
River
"Son of a bitch," I growl, my concentration shot to hell as soon as the doorbell rings. For the first time all week, the words are finally flowing…and now this. I shove my chair back from my desk, muttering a string of curses as I stomp out of my office and then down the hall to the living room.
The doorbell rings again before I make it to the door.
"Give me a damn minute!" I yell, pissed as I unlatch the lock.
Who the fuck comes over at 8:05 am on a Thursday, anyway? No one I want to see, that's who. Everyone in my inner circle knows not to bother me from seven to three on weekdays. Anyone who doesn't know that isn't in the…
