Page 86 of Love & Notes

Leading her away from the suffocating buzz of fake laughs and high-society vultures, I guide her up the sweeping marble staircase. My hand finds the small of her back—finally, finally making direct contact with the warm, bare skin exposed above the plunge of her dress. The silky touch of her, coupled with that absurd, brilliant white bow sitting below her waist, has been doing something criminal to my focus all evening. I keep my palm flat against her spine, anchoring her to my side as we navigate the quiet, dim expanse of the upper gallery.

“We’re nearly there,” I mutter.

“Where are we going, Julian?” Ellise asks softly, her ocean-blue eyes scanning the towering oak doors and antique oil paintings lining the hallway.

I push open the heavy, hand-carved mahogany door at the very end of the West Wing, and the scent hits us instantly—that intoxicating, timeless cocktail of old parchment, aged leather bindings, and cedar.

I reach out and flip a brass toggle switch. Warm light blooms across the room, illuminating two full levels of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves connected by a sweeping, rolling brass ladder. Thousands of leather-bound spines in deep crimson, gold, hunter green, and every other possible color climb toward the vaulted ceiling, and sitting quietly in the far corner, nestled under the soft glow of a floor lamp, is a tiger-mahogany Steinway grand piano.

Ellise freezes.

She doesn’t take another step, standing dead still in the entrance with an expression I’ve never seen on her face before—pure, breathtaking awe. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted as she attempts to process the sheer scale of the room.

“You have all of this…” she whispers, her voice barely a breath. “...in your house?”

“Alistair likes to look cultured,” I say, rolling my shoulders.

I strip off my tuxedo jacket and toss it carelessly over the back of an armchair, then reach up to undo my bow tie. Unlooping the black silk, I pop the top few studs of my shirt. I've been quietly suffocating for hours—I can finally fucking breathe.

Leaning my hips back against the heavy mahogany desk, I cross my ankles, put my hands in my pockets and just watch her.

“Go on. Have a look around,” I say, gesturing to the endless shelves. “They’re simply overpriced collectibles to him, but I have a feeling some of them might actually mean something to you.”

She takes a cautious step forward, then another, the faint click of her heels echoing softly against the dark hardwood. She reaches out, her slender fingers hovering just a fraction of an inch away from the ancient spines, not quite touching them.

I stay exactly where I am, my arms crossed, watching her move through the amber light. In this moment, stripped of her guard and surrounded by books, she is completely in her element, and I’ll be damned if I ruin it.

When she reaches the glass-encased section of the rare nineteenth-century literature, her breath catches sharply.

“Julian.” She freezes. “Is this… is this an original first edition of Wuthering Heights?”

“Probably.” I let out a low, genuine chuckle.

Truthfully, I haven’t looked at half the volumes in this room, but I know my father’s art dealer bought out an entire estate years ago.

“Take it down. Have a look.”

“I absolutely should not touch it.” She spins around, looking at me with an expression of genuine outrage. “This belongs in a temperature-controlled vault in a museum.”

“Seriously, Ellise.” I push off the desk, the casual smirk fading into something far heavier. “Take it down.”

She hesitates, still standing at a safe, respectful distance. I can’t help myself. I cross the room, the thick oriental rug swallowing the sound of my footsteps until I’m standing directly behind her.

Reaching past her, my arm brushes against the soft curve of her cheek as I pull the volume from the casing. At the sudden closeness, she goes entirely still. I can feel the heat radiating off her skin, the exposed line of her back flush against my chest. Her breath hitches sharply as I lower my left hand to her waist, my wide palm cupping her hip, holding her right where she belongs—against me.

I lean down until my lips are grazing the shell of her ear, my voice dropping an octave.

“Touch it, Bow-Peep.” I breathe against her skin. “It’s been sitting in the dark waiting for someone who actually gives a shit to hold it.”

I guide the book into her hands, sliding my fingers over hers. I stay right there, locked against her back.

“Open it,” I murmur, smelling her sweet vanilla scent.

Her hands tremble slightly as she opens the delicate, aged cover.

“It really is a first edition. Thomas Cautley Newby printing. Julian, this is extraordinary, I can’t believe it’s sitting on a—”

She stops as my fingers find the nape of her neck. I move her hair slowly over her shoulder, her chestnut waves draping down to expose her neck, and I press my lips to it.