Page 7 of Forbidden Dark Vows

“I’m not.” I slather butter onto a slice of toast. The world does not think nearly highly enough of toast—it is the food of gods. “What did you think was going to happen? A marriage proposal within an hour of meeting?”

“I thought you would at least have secured a second date, Ruby.” Faint lines appear between her eyebrows. She’s disappointed, which means that she’ll already be scheming to get me back in front of Alessandro Russo.

“To secure a second date, we would need to have enjoyed a first.”

“Don’t get clever with me, Ruby. No one likes a smartass.”

“I do.” I munch on my toast and lick dripping butter from my fingers.

I don’t tell her that I’m not taking anyone’s sloppy seconds. I saw his tongue disappearing into that woman’s mouth. It’s obviousthat Alessandro Russo is never going to be a one-woman man, and I’m worth more than that, even if my mom doesn’t believe I am.

“Even if he has no money and no prospects?” Mom finishes her coffee and grabs her purse from the counter.

“I’d rather have an intellectual conversation with a smartass than a bottle of champagne in a snooty restaurant with someone who’s eying up the waitresses.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She comes over and teases the curls out of my ponytail. “All men eye up other women. So long as they don’t touch, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Did Dad?”

She hesitates, her spine stiffening, the usual glazed look appearing in her eyes. “Of course he looked at other women. Lucky for me, he realized how good he had it at home.”

She leaves the house in a waft of Chanel No. 5, calling out goodbye to my dad as she goes, and poking her head back around the kitchen door to say, “Leave it with me, sweetie. This one’s not getting away so easily.”

I finish my breakfast, the toast clinging to the roof of my mouth. I try to empty my mind, focusing on my food and coffee instead of my mom’s determination to bag me a rich husband, but it doesn’t work.

Was Emily Bronte happy?

Why did Harry Weiss of all people pop into my head? It wasn’t like I was ever going to see him again, but something about the way he asked the question had stuck with me. He didn’t tell me that he knew nothing about the book or that he preferred moviesto reading—although he probably did—but instead he’d ingested my comment and gotten straight to the heart of it. What made the author tick.

I swallow another mouthful of toast. Time for work.

I clear my dishes and go into the den where my dad is tucked up on the couch with a Harold Robbins book open on his lap.

“Are you off?” I see the way his expression crumples even though he tries to hide it.

I know he must be bored at home all day on his own, and it breaks my heart to have to leave him, but the bills won’t pay themselves. He makes me think of a dog waiting by the front door all day for his humans to come home because that’s the best part of the day.

“I’m due in the library in exactly—” I check my watch “—ten minutes.” I’m late again, but I sense that he doesn’t want me to leave.

“Go. I’ll be fine. You love your job at the library.”

I do. I enjoy it even more than I enjoy the dog walking I do to earn some extra cash. The library is the only place where I can forget everything else and pretend that I’m in Narnia or Wonderland or the Yorkshire moors. There’s no pressure to be me in the beautiful old building.

“See you later.” I cross the room and kiss his cheek. “I have a question to ask you when I get back.”

He smiles. “I’m intrigued. Can I wait that long?”

“Sorry. You have no choice.”

He stops me when I reach the door. “So long as it doesn’t involve your mom’s determination to clip your wings and tie you down.”

I freeze. I’ve never heard Mom discuss anything like that with him, so I’m surprised to hear him say it out loud. He knows more than he ever lets on, but I guess what else does he have to fill his day with?

“You know me, Dad. I’ll fly when I’m ready.”

He nods, and I swear there are tears in his eyes. “That’s my baby girl.”

I spend the rest of the day restocking bookshelves and directing people towards the right aisles. The smell of old books is my comfort zone, especially in winter when the days are short and the early twilight brings a gentle hush to the old building. When the whole world has gone home to put the fire on and shut the curtains, I choose a book and go lose myself in a squashy sofa somewhere quiet.

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