Page 22 of Love, Magic and Misfortune
Four weeks had passed since her first official visit with Jasper (not including that time when he hadn’t opened the door). The air in the study was cool in an increasingly familiar way—laced with the scent of chamomile tea and crammed bookshelves. Jasper sat at his desk, his long fingers clicking and clacking away on his keyboard and his eyes focused behind his brown-framed glasses. She didn’t know what he was doing, but he was utterly absorbed. Studious, even.
When she stood to stretch her legs, he paused, hands frozen as he glanced in her direction such that their eyes met. Taking in his slim face and bright eyes—the undeniable, tangible realness of him—her smile broadened. He smiled, too, a little quirk at the corner of his mouth before hastily shifting his focus back to his laptop. The light was dim so she wasn’t certain, but it seemed as if a flush of color was slowly creeping up his neck and to his cheeks as he resumed typing.
Violet strolled toward the wall of bookshelves, stopping at random and running her fingers across the textured spines. To her surprise, they weren’t dusty at all. “Have you actually read these?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes. Some multiple times.”
“You read books more than once?”
“You don’t?” Jasper faced her, his dark eyebrow cocked in disbelief.
The fire crackled in the hearth beside her as she scanned title after title. “Nope. Sometimes, if I really like a book, I might skim my favorite parts over again, but that’s it. I conquer a book, then move on to the next. I’m promiscuous that way. Always searching for a new literary lover.”
Jasper chuckled, leaning back in his desk chair. Violet smiled. “You’re not?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way, but… Maybe I’m more monogamous in my literary affairs? I stick with a book for a while if I enjoy it. I might read it two or three times within a month of finishing it. Sometimes it’s difficult for me to move on if I’m captivated by something.”
“I believe they call that a ‘book hangover.’ What’s the last book that captivated you?”
“Hm… ProbablySecrets of the Gemini.”
Violet brightened. “I’ve heard of that. I keep meaning to pick it up—the one about the timeless stone in Egypt, right? I love that kind of stuff.”
“Yes, it’s phenomenal. It starts in 31 BCE with a jewel owned by Cleopatra. It’s fictitious, of course, but it gives this lustrous account of an object’s unique passage through history and time. You get to see how it’s circulated from one person and situation to another, the object remaining the same but everything around it constantly changing. It was a poignant and beautifully written account of life and humanity.”
“It sounds amazing. Is there any romance?”
“Um, no. Not really.”
“That’s too bad.”
“There are plenty of romance books?”
She walked back to the couch and plopped down onto the cushions. “Romance books are nice. But I mean… I want a meaty, thoughtful plot and with good, romance elements. I don’t want the woman to be objectified at all—and I want the guy to havesubstance. Lately the guys in romance books I read feel the same to me. Almost, formulaic?”
“That’s because everyone wants the same thing, Vi.” Jasper shrugged. “Someone tall with a square jaw and lots of testosterone. Maybe washboard abs, and a primitive mind and disposition… Someone like Freddie.”
Violet narrowed her eyes at him in amusement. “That’snotwhat ‘everyone’ wants.”
“Or…” Jasper brightened, stroking his chin as if he were deeply contemplating. “A ‘bad boy’? The one who treats everyone terribly and is justified because of his troubled past. Obviously, he is also tall, has a square jaw and is blessed with washboard abs. Those are standards—like flour, eggs and sugar in baking a cake.”
“Jasper, not everyone wants a Fabio stereotype.Idon’t want that.”
“I’m not sure if Fabio is relevant anymore? The new standard is probably Chris Hemsworth. Chris Evans or some other Chris.”
“I do like Chris Pine…” Violet shook her head. “Anyway, that’s why I don’t read romances so much anymore, because a lot of the characters were starting to seem like cardboard cutouts of the same stereotype and always, always making poor choices. But in Ambrose Marcello’s books, the characters feel more real. There’s never a delicious romance, though—”
“Marcello is not a romance writer.”
“Not strictly, I know. But there are always hints of romantic elements? I like his intricate plot lines, the descriptive locations, and that he always has ethnically diverse, thinking and feeling characters. His female leads are lively and smart, too.”
In a rare occurrence, Jasper sat staring, simply blinking his dark lashes behind his reading glasses. “Well, maybe… romance isn’t his strength.”
“I suppose. I don’t know. I just think if he ever put out a book like that, it’d be glorious. He takes such care with everything else—you know what it is about his characters?”
“Mm?”
“It’s like he bases his characters off of real women that he knows, instead of wistfully creating a slew of svelte, big-breasted chicks from his man fantasies.”
