I want to thank redheadknits for being such an awesome beta. Not only did you fix what needed fixing, you saved my butt when I accidentally lost the story! Also, thanks to MaleficentKnits for your continued support.
Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.
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I watch him.
He sits with one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the other holding open the book on the table before him. His hazel-green eyes never leaving the book, he moves the hand from his neck to turn the page. He brushes his wavy brown hair from where it has fallen, covering his face from my view. I copy the movement, tucking my own brown hair behind one ear. I wish it was his hand in my hair, and mine in his. Wish for us to be in a more private place. But I know that he won't leave before he absolutely has to. He never does.
The library isn't very crowded. It never is in the evenings. The college crowd has finished their studies for the day, and are out looking for more exciting ways to spend their time. Mothers, who bring their children during the day, are at home; preparing dinner, bathing the kids, putting them to bed. The librarian and her assistants are busy; putting books back on shelves, gathering discarded coffee cups and pieces of paper, organizing pens and paperclips at the checkout desk. I pay very little attention to these activities. I watch him.
I've spent countless hours doing my research. There are quite a few dark, secluded corners in various rooms of the building. I know them all. I know the location of every nook and cranny where a couple could go to be inconspicuous. There are entire sections of book shelves where nobody ever goes. Maybe not enough privacy for everything I want to do with him. To him. But, if I could take him there and show him, he'd know. Not everything, not right away, but enough so that he'd know. Did I want him to know? Until I know for sure that it is the right time, I will be content with my daily routine.
I watch him. He digs in his backpack, rooting through the disorganized contents. A slight frown furrows his brow, and I want to rub my hand across it, eliminating the lines that mar the perfection. He takes out a container of mints, opens it, and slips one into his mouth as he continues to burrow in the pack, still searching. I know the brand and flavor of the mints. He doesn't like strong peppermint, preferring the more subtle wintergreen. I had rummaged through his belongings once, when he left the table unattended. I want to taste the mints, second-hand.
Finally finding what he is looking for, he pulls the iPod out of the bag and sticks the ear-buds in place. He listens for a moment and then shakes his head, causing his hair to once again partially obscure his face from me. His lush lips purse a moment, causing a shock to run through my body. The things I want him to do with those lips should be illegal. He must have found the song he wanted, because he sets the iPod on the table and goes back to his book. I can see his lips moving slightly as he quietly sings along with the music. I wish, not for the first time, that I can read lips. I want to sing with him, even if only in my mind.
Suddenly, he raises his gaze from the open book, looking around the room in confusion. Does he feel me watching? Does he know I am here? Shaking his head, he puts a marker in the book to save his place, then puts the book and iPod into his backpack. He slowly stands, stretching; then grabs the battered cowboy hat and places it on his head. Looking around the room one more time, he slings the straps of the pack over his shoulder and slowly saunters from the room. I watch him.
He walks down the sidewalk, his long, lanky form casting a shadow as he passes beneath the street lights. He is unaware of how many female heads turn as he passes by. He doesn't know that the combination of a muscle-hugging pullover shirt, skin-tight jeans, boots and a cowboy hat is magnetic. Women can't help but stare. And dream. Even younger girls find themselves drawn to him; feelings they don't understand pulsing through their bodies, and they don't know why. He reaches the coffee shop on the corner, slows, and walks in. I stand at the window.
I watch him.
He watches her.
