Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 44645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
“Yes, well, if only you would let me see that, I could probably…” I stop talking as he gently pulls the blindfold away, and my eyes widen in disbelief.
Ahead of me lies a colossal room that rivals any private library that I’ve ever read about in my books. Spread across three levels stacked high with overflowing shelves, there are enough books to keep me entertained for a lifetime.
Overcome with awe, I rush down the staircase and move toward a case that’s flanked by a white piano.
There are multiple hardback editions of every book, and I can’t help running my fingers against the embossed titles.
Near a bright red parlor chair, a stack of books sits atop an ornate glass table. Their spines are coated in a stark white, and their titles are woven in gold.
Macbeth. A MidSummer’s Night Dream. Ulysses. Oedipus Rex.. Romeo & Juliet.
A small pang forms in my chest at the memory of my old book friend, but I force myself to push it aside.
Let him go, Belle…
“I have other copies of those,” Gabriel says. “They’re on the shelf near the hearth.”
“Noted.” I look around the room again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you just have all these books for show, or do you actually know how to read?”
“I know how to fucking read.” He looks amused. “I would’ve never started collecting books if I didn’t.”
“You and my sister will be a perfect match, then. Warning, though, she collects more than she read.”
“I don’t want to discuss your sister,” he says, changing the subject. “You can take whatever books you want from this room while you’re here, minus the books on that table.”
“Are they your personal copies?”
“They’re first editions that I was planning to give to a friend,” he says. “She loved reading as much as I did, but we never had the opportunity to meet in person.”
“Why not?”
“She didn’t think it would be appropriate.” He picks up one of the books, flipping through the pages.
“She probably heard all the rumors about you.” I smile. “Smart decision.”
“Funny. She never knew my name, though.”
“Wait a minute.” I raise my eyebrow. “How were you friends with her if you never met?”
He looks as if I’ve stepped on a nerve, so I think of a way to change the subject.
“We wrote notes to each other in the margins of books,” he says. “It was a joke at first, but she kept writing me back.”
“What?” My entire world shifts under my feet and I suddenly can’t breathe.
“I don’t think she was ever planning to give me a real chance…” He’s talking to himself more than me right now. “She turned me down whenever I brought it up.”
I squint at the note that sits next to the book stacks. It’s a simple, “You deserve nice things,” and the words are penned in the distinct handwriting that I’ve come to love.
There’s no way…
“She also preferred tragedies over romance for some odd reason.”
“This can’t be true.” The words tumble out of my mouth as I look over at the spines again, rereading their titles, feeling my heart fluttering wildly.
“I found that to be odd as well,” he says. “I felt like I could tell her anything in my notes. Well, almost anything.”
“How long exactly were you writing her?” I ask, still not wanting to accept that my book friend has been with me this entire time. That it’s him.
“Over two years…I always signed off my letter as—”
“Your Only Friend,” I interrupt him. “And I was Your Only Friend Too…”
He immediately looks up from his book.
Tears prick my eyes as I watch him come to the same realization as me, and my heart is seconds away from jumping out of my chest.
“For what it’s worth, I did try to meet you.” My voice is faint. “I told you where to meet me, and what I’d be wearing.”
“I know.” He steps closer to me. “I missed you because I was kidnapping someone else that day….”
“Well, I guess that’s the end of that mystery, then. I guess I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about you after all.”
“Belle?” he asks, slipping an arm around my waist, pulling me so close that my breasts are flush against his chest.
“Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
He pulls me down to the carpet, his lips owning mine, tears falling from my eyes. I can feel his cock hardening between us, and I slide my hand over it, but he doesn’t make a move to do more.
“I’ll fuck you later,” he whispers. “I have two years worth of kissing your mouth to make up for first…”
Panting, he rolls me on top of him. “Is there anything else I need to know about you?”
“The first book we read together was The Hayweather,” I say. “Do you have the version with the sheets that reveal what happens on the honeymoon?”
“That’s what you want to ask me about at this moment?” He grins. “Some missing book scenes?”