Auden must notice too, because he looks up at his lawyer with one of those boy-king smiles he has. “Cremer, you are saucy tonight! And about books, of all things!”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I pull it out, I see a message from a number I don’t recognize.
Unknown number: This is Nimue. Tell Mr. Cremer to hire a woman
named Proserpina Markham to work on Thornchapel’s library.
I stare at the phone for a long time, not really sure what I’m seeing. But four years working with Merlin has left me resigned to these sorts of things—when magic crops up, it’s always more work to ignore it than to let it blow through your life. With a sigh, I turn to Cremer.
“You should hire someone named Proserpina Markham,” I say very quickly, hoping it sounds less bonkers if I blurt it out.
The ledger Auden holds falls shut with a loud, papery clap. I glance over at him in surprise, even more surprised to see a muscle ticking wildly in his jaw.
“What did you just say?” he whispers. His long eyelashes sweep over those hazel eyes like dark fans as he looks at me with something like shock. “What name did you just say?”
“Proserpina Markham,” I repeat. “It’s a mouthful, I know.”
Auden is staring at me hard enough to etch my skin with his questions. My phone buzzes again.
Nimue: She’s a rare book archival specialist in the U.S.
“She’s an archival specialist,” I parrot.
Auden shoves the ledgers off his lap to stand. “Holy fuck,” he mutters to himself. He spears long fingers through his light brown hair in jerky, agitated movements. “Holy fuck.”
I take a look at my pacing host and then at the tipsy lawyer in front of me, who already looks eager to pounce on whatever this means to Auden if it will result in Auden hiring a librarian, and I quietly excuse myself from the seating area. I probably should get myself another drink or pretend to sift through the ledgers some more—polite, meaningless activity while I give Auden and Cremer privacy—but I can’t help it, I’m drawn to the giant windows.
I’m drawn to the tall, wide-shouldered man silhouetted against the glass.
Sidney stands with one hand in a pocket and the other with his scotch glass dangling between his fingertips. He’s gazing out at the snow-beleaguered scene outside, but he nods when I come to stand next to him, as if he’s been aware of my movements the whole time.
“Ryan.” He takes a drink.
“Mr. Blount.”
We share a quiet moment together, just watching the snow come down and the laden trees creak in the wind. Then he says, abruptly, “Your President. Did you love him?”
There’s no sense in lying. “Yes.”
His fingers tighten around the glass. “Were you lovers?”
“No. Why are you asking?”
“Because, Ryan Belvedere, I want to know what I’m up against.”
Shock and hope thud through my bloodstream; I have to swallow before I speak. “What you’re up against?”
Sidney takes a step forward, close enough that I can see the reflection of the firelight glinting in his eyes. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Am I competing with the hero you gave your body to, or only your heart? Have I lost the chance to try for you before I’ve even met you?”
I don’t think I can breathe. “Mr. Blount…”
Another step forward. “You didn’t shave today,” he murmurs. “It makes me want to touch your jaw. Is that a problem?”
And I finally get it, finally get that when he asks is this a problem, he’s actually asking if it’s okay, he’s asking if he can.
He’s asking for consent.
That realization sends a hot frisson of need right to my dick. “It’s not a problem,” I say hoarsely.
