Page 36 of The Library of Borrowed Hearts

“But you always put it back in the mornings,” he accused as his hand dropped from the shelf. Like her, he spoke in the hushed whisper that both the library setting and Mrs. Peters required. He must have noticed her struggling to hide her smile, because he narrowed his eyes. “You’re supposed to be at the grocery store.”

“I had to leave. I find broccoli to be tedious.”

“Of course it’s tedious. All Cruciferae are tedious. They take up too much space and attract more pests than any other vegetable. Most amateur gardeners don’t find them worth the effort.”

At this terse recitation of gardening facts—the most words he’d ever said to her out loud—Catherine’s grin only widened. “You seem to have awfully strong feelings about broccoli.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I have strong feelings about everything.” He stuck out his hand. “Give me the book. It’s my turn.”

Even though he was standing on the other side of the library bookshelf and the copy ofThe Haunting of Hill Housewas tucked safely in her pocket, she jumped back. “Not yet. I’m not done talking about vegetables. I’d like to know what else you find offensive about them.”

He scowled. “I don’t findallof them offensive. Just that particular type.”

“The kind that takes up too much space?”

“Yes.”

“The kind that demands regular attention?”

“Exactly.”

“The kind that causes nothing but bitterness and distaste any time you put them in your mouth?”

That one gave him a moment’s pause. It also caused his gaze to fall quickly to her lips before shooting back up to her eyes again. “I never said that.”

He didn’t have to. He’d revealed more in that brief flicker than in the entire past three months of literary correspondence. As much as Catherine enjoyed the slow pace of their communication, of the anticipation and excitement every time she saw that book on the shelf, the danger in knowing that anyone might stumble upon the copy and burst the iridescent bubble in which the pair of them were encased, she was too much a living, breathing woman to stay in that bubble forever.

A careful, quiet courtship was all well and good when you were reading about it in the pages of a book. She liked an epistolary novel just as much as the next girl—she’d thrilled over every page of Dorothy Sayers’sThe Documents in the Caseand had even managed to make it all the way throughAnne of Windy Poplars—but there were times when a scribbled note wasn’t going to cut it.

This was one of those times.

“I haven’t had a chance to write a response yet,” she said with a knowing pat at her pocket. “But if you come with me, I’ll tell you what I was planning to put down.”

Jasper couldn’t have looked more alarmed if she’d brained him over the head with the entire shelf of Shirley Jackson books.

“Come with you where?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She had to think fast. For one thing, she knew that she only had about thirty more seconds before Jasper made a break for it. It didn’t seem to matter that he was a tall strapping bear of a man with hands that looked as though they could crush baseballs, or that despite his rough exterior, he was incredibly intelligent with an almost encyclopedicknowledge of plants and literature. Nor did it seem to occur to him that he had Catherine practically eating out of the palm of his hand. She knew that one wrong move—or one loud sound—and he’d dash back out into the woods, never to be seen again.

For another thing, she could hear the heavy footsteps and even heavier breathing of Mrs. Peters heading their way. That woman could sense a man lingering in the aisles faster than a bat echolocating its way to dinner.

“This way.” She tilted her head toward the back of the library, where the stairs down to the basement stood. There wasn’t much down there but an unused coal scuttle and a big empty room they used to store old books, but like Jasper Holmes, that was a large part of its charm.

It was quiet. Tempting. And wholly underappreciated by the world at large.

He looked as though he wanted to argue, but he was even more terrified of Mrs. Peters than he was of Catherine. With a duck of his head, he followed her to the end of the bookshelf.

That was when Catherine made her move. Dashing out a hand, she wound her fingers through his, locking his palm in place. As expected, his hand felt rough against hers, his calluses formed through hard work and determination. Her own palms were silky smooth and slightly infantile, thanks in large part to the Vaseline that her mom insisted she slather all over her hands before shoving them inside a pair of cotton gloves before she went to bed every night.

Jasper must have felt the difference as keenly as she did because his whole hand flexed and tried to pull away.

“No, don’t,” she whispered as she began leading him toward the basement door. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Jasper found nothing strange in this remark. He only ducked his head and followed her, his eyes watching for any sign of Mrs. Peters. The two of them fumbled and bumped as they made their way down the dark hallway and the even darker stairs, but no one came after them.

There were several light bulbs with dangling strings that Catherine could have pulled, but she didn’t want to risk it. Instead, she kicked aside a box of shiny new plumbing parts and wrapped her arms around Jasper’s neck. And then she read the one thing that was better than a new book: the soft, scared,hungrylook in Jasper’s eyes.

So she kissed him.