Chapter 9
"I'm not that fascinating," I lie. I'm completely fascinating – even if only to myself. But the real question is, "Why do you think that?"
Is he fascinated by my choice of books?
Is he fascinated by my thorough inability to engage in witty, insightful conversation without looking at his lips or pushing out my chest?
Shit. Is he only fascinated by my breasts?
Don't misunderstand, I want him to be fascinated by my breasts, but I would rather it be in addition to my mind.
And maybe my smile.
And possibly the fact that I am beyond fascinated by him.
"Because you're smart." He says the words simply, without a trace of humor. I'm happy for the already-flushed skin.
"And how do you know that?" I ask, trying to contain my smile and the immense delight that courses through me at his compliment.
"Well, it's a proven fact that people who read a lot are smarter," he says, pausing. "And the books you check out are deep. They make you think. They make you question. They make you view the world differently."
I'm so astounded by his answer and it makes it difficult to form a response.
I lean in closer, placing my elbows on the counter, my chin in my hands. "So you've read them all, then?"
"Yes, but I have to admit, out of your last four check-outs, I'm most impressed with Harry Potter," he says, his eyes drifting lower for just a moment. Is it possible to be aroused during a conversation about children's lit? "It's my favorite of your choices so far."
This makes me smile. Not only because he likes Harry Potter, but because he told me to choose something I truly wanted to read. And while it's arguably not deep literature, I absolutely adore the books.
"Mine, too," I tell him, grinning. "I love the books. I feel like I grew up with the characters. And The Half Blood Prince is my favorite."
"Why?"
"I think I love it most because Harry is dealing with...a lot," I say. His hand inches closer and is now on the book in front of me, his fingers trace the length of the spine. I realize I'm staring, wanting something more than the conversation. Maybe just a touch. But then I lose my nerve, so I continue. "He's lost so much, but at the same time, he realizes that he's in love for the first time. There's so much to be said about...I don't know...the ability to feel that way, to have that hope, even when everything else around you is so...bleak."
His green eyes hold mine for a long moment. Truly, it feels like hours of minutes of extremely long seconds pass between us.
"See," he says softly…lowly. "That was a deep answer. That's how I know you're intelligent."
Harry Potter makes me intelligent.
Not my love of Wharton or Allende.
For some reason, this makes me beam. And no matter how I try, I can't contain the smile that spreads across my face. I also can't contain my body's powerful inclination to climb across the counter and run my fingers through his hair and beg him to kiss me and tell me the title his favorite book.
Well, I almost can't contain it.
I do.
Counter climbing and physical advances might be frowned upon in the library.
But I wouldn't if I were sure he wanted me to.
He doesn't say anything else, and neither do I. And I don't really want to because this moment is so perfect. But sometimes – like right now – I just can't help myself.
"That's not the only reason this book is my favorite," I tell him smiling.
I reach down to collect it. I can't help it when my hand brushes against his. I also can't stop the gasp that escapes me when I feel this rush of electrically charged energy.
I wonder if he felt that…
"Why else?" he asks. "What's the other reason?"
"I'll tell you tomorrow." I grin. "I'm wondering if you can't figure it out."
I turn to walk away while the moment is still perfect, but then I stop before I reach the door. And turning, I tell him, "I wouldn't mind knowing…you know…what you'll be reading tonight."
"I guess I'm reading The Half Blood Prince."
Please leave us some love. :)
