Page 27 of The Library of Borrowed Hearts

“It’s fine, I guess,” she said, trying to downplay her interest in the book. “A little pedantic, but perhaps that’s the sort of thing you like.”

William’s bright smile dimmed by a fraction—enough so she felt bad, but not so much that he handed the book over. It was like she’d said; he was no fool.

“If I give this to you, will you do something for me?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied, the words popping out before she could stop them.

And just like that, the light was back on in William’s eyes. He held the book tantalizingly out of reach. “Then I’d like you to go out with me.”

Her heart gave another one of those convulsive pangs. “What? Why?”

“This book obviously means something to you,” he said, speaking with the smooth, unironic confidence of a man who had no idea he was about to commit what amounted to a moral crime. “Andyouobviously mean something to me. One date, Catherine. That’s all I’m asking. They’re showing Gidget out at the drive-in. We could grab milkshakes at the diner afterward.”

This was so similar to the bland, unimaginative date she’d pictured him offering that she almost betrayed herself with a laugh. She also realized that she needed to play her handverycarefully if she wanted to keep the book safe.

“Sure. Fine. If you want.”

“Really? This Saturday?” His face lit up with such an ecstatic expression that she almost felt guilty for getting the guy’s hopes up. Fortunately, the blackmail angle stopped her from going too far down that path. Arealgentleman would have asked her for some innocuous favor instead, like helping him select a new book to read or telling him the phone number for the weather update. Not her literal flesh.

“Saturday sounds perfect,” she said with a sweet smile. “And to show you I mean business, you can go ahead and check out that book if you really want it. You might even enjoy the read. It’s all about how the main character deserts his post and shames himself as both a soldier and a man.”

To anyone else—say, Jasper Holmes—this would sound like the obvious ploy it was. To William McBride, it worked like a charm.

“Nah. Like I said, it was just my excuse.” He handed her the book, still grinning like the Cheshire cat floating in a tub of cream. “I was starting to run out of ideas for coming in here. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not actually interested in Egyptian sun goddesses.”

“You don’t say,” Catherine said dryly.

If William caught on to her sarcasm, there was no chance for him to indicate it. A low cough sounded in the open doorway, and Mrs. Peters popped her head inside. From her tightly pursed lips, Catherine was guessing she’d heard that bit about goddesses.

“Is that lock fixed yet, young man?” Mrs. Peters asked.

“As good as new, ma’am,” William said with a polite nod that Catherine prayed her mother would never have a chance to see. Her mom could be counted on to brew clandestine pots of coffee and look the other way when Catherine walked out the door in indecently tight pants, but if there was one thing she loved more than anything else, it was a young man who had manners.

“I should get back to the base anyway,” he added. “But if you have more work that needs to be done around here—any work at all—I’d be happy to pop in during my off time to see what I can do.”

Mrs. Peters tutted and swooned in a way that Catherine took to mean she approved of this offer. However, as she also took William by the arm and started to escort him on a tour of the various rusted hinges and broken bricks that could use a man’s touch, Catherine didn’t worry too much about it. If anything could be used to keep William from haunting the library—and, by proximity,her—it was the length of the library repair list.

As soon as their voices receded in the distance, Catherine shut the door and flipped the pages of the book until she found the end of chapter seventeen—the last place she’d directed Jasper, and to a quote she was more than a little curious to hear his thoughts on.

In a heavy underscore, she’d highlighted the passage she intended for his eyes only. To her relief—and delight—he’d been quick to catch on.

“I’m your friend.”

“I know you are.”

“No you don’t. But you will some day.”

If you really want to be my friend, this is the part where I should probably confess that I don’t like Hemingway very much.

Catherine barely managed to tamp down her outburst of delight in time. He hadn’t actuallyagreedto a friendship with her—or indicated in the slightest that he felt the same way—but he’d returned her message. That was enough for Catherine. For now.

She dashed off a quick answer before Mrs. Peters could return and demand an accounting of events inside this office.

I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. But if you don’t like Hemingway, why did you pick up the book in the first place?

Her hands trembled as she slid the novel in her pocket to be shelved later, but not with fear. This was anticipation, pure and simple. There was a good chance that one of them was going to get caught in this little game, and that the fault for it would land squarely on her own shoulders, but Catherine didn’t care.

Life in this town might not contain ballets and museums, but it was turning out to offer more excitement than all the glittering cities and their untold mysteries combined.