Page 4 of Kept

I found myself nodding, the weight of the decision swept away by other, trifling things, like how dark his lashes were, the way his cheeks had hollowed out, the curve of his lower lip. How many times had I watched his lips as he spoke, while secretly doodlingJane Harlowin my notebook?

“I’ll be here,” I said, my voice barely audible. He reached out as his smile faded into something darker, brushed his thumb over the point of my chin for a second that was burned into my mind for eternity, and turned away.

I released a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding, watching the flex of his broad muscles under the shirt.

When I was younger, I would’ve sworn before under oath (if the embarrassment didn’t kill me first) that Rhett Harlow could never be more gorgeous than he was with tousled hair and a red pen in hand, marking up papers as his brow furrowed in concentration.

I’d been very wrong.

Rhett left me to gather my thoughts in silence, and after a minute, when I was sure my face was no longer on fire, I made my way back to Mrs. Clarke and Professor Spears.

He glanced at me when I handed the book to Mrs. Clarke, who peered at me over the rim of her glasses. “I hope you won’t be so slow to retrieve a single book every time, or there’s no point in having an assistant librarian,” she said waspishly.

Wonderful. Classes hadn’t even started, and most of the staff already hated me.

“Let’s finish the tour, Jane,” Professor Spears said. I promised Mrs. Clarke I’d be back in an hour and walked out with Spears’ hand nestled in the small of my back again. Without the cardigan blocking the cut-out design, he was touching me skin to skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. Strange how a man so cold could have hands so warm.

He was just as chilly through the rest of the tour, leading me down hallways, through multiple wings, pointing out brass plaques that declared which each section of Bourdillon was. Several times I felt his arm brush against mine, and felt those vivid blue eyes looking me over when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

I wondered what he thought, if he regretted choosing my name from the list, my essay from the pile. If he didn’t find me worth such a prestigious scholarship.

I turned my back on those thoughts as he led me back to the library for the job orientation. There was no point dwelling on those insecurities. They’d chosen me, now they were stuck with me.

Spears held open the glass door. “I’ll see you soon. If you need anything, come to me.”

He didn’t sound welcoming in the slightest, but despite the coldness of his tone, he touched my back again, fingertips against the ridges of my spine.

“Yes, sir,” I said automatically, falling right back into the student-authority mindset of my youth.

For the first time, he smiled. It was breathtaking, sun breaking through clouds, ice thawing in spring. Superman about to carry Lois Lane off into the sunset sky.

Then he closed the door in my face.

I didn’t get time to ponder why he’d finally shown me a real human emotion before he left. Mrs. Clarke immediately put me to work shelving, carting books across the library, and giving me an enormous list of books to be weeded this semester. A few times, I hid in a corner and took a big whiff of a book just for the sheer joy of the smell. Libraries just felt likehometo me.

I was exhausted by the end of the day, but had two bright spots to make up for it. First off, Mrs. Clarke had decided somewhere between three o’clock and five o’ clock that I was a bonafide trustworthy human being and entrusted me with locking up for the night, even though she told me not to get used to the privilege.

And Rhett had said he’d be here.

I took my time with tidying everything, choosing a small closet to use as my own personal space for my cardigan, coat, and bag, and filling out several delivery slips for other departments that Mrs. Clarke had left in a messy pile. When that was done, I looked around.

The main room was only a fraction of Bourdillon’s library; there were the rear sections, the archival light-and-humidity-controlled chambers, and several floors beneath us filled with older books that had been cycled out over time for preservation.

It was one of my most treasured dreams come true.

The clock flipped to eight, and I dragged out the remaining fifteen minutes as slowly as I could. Unlike the modern convenience of the high-speed computer system and elegant lighting that had been installed at the circulation desk, the main doors were still locked with an old-fashioned brass key. I had a feeling that more secure deadbolts flipped into place as soon as the key locked the door, but there was a strange sense of import to it all the same.

I stared at the key Mrs. Clarke had left me, and the remaining minutes crawled by like sludge. It felt like a small eternity to consider how much of a bad idea it was to stay. I was just about to pull my raincoat on and walk out when one of the Tiffany doors rattled and opened.

Chapter Two

Rhett Harlow steppedin and shut the door behind him. He held a bottle of wine under one arm and cradled two wine glasses.

The little quiver of anticipation became a quiver of nerves when he smiled. “I wasn’t sure if you’d wait for me.”

“I said I’d be here,” I said, lowering my jacket to the back of the leather computer chair.

Rhett paused and flipped a few switches, casting half the library in darkness, and beckoned me with a jerk of his head. Feeling like I was in some weird dream where up was down and left was right, I followed him past the Natural History section, towards a corner that was conveniently shelved in so it couldn’t be seen from the main library or the balcony overhead that area. It was effectively a blind spot.

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