Excerpt:
Nick and Clara are perusing a book of Shunga: Japanese erotic art from the Edo period.
Nick flips the page again and points to an image of a couple going at it fiercely. “Notice how the woman’s toes are curled?”
I giggle. “I thought that was just an expression. You know, he made my toes curl.”
Nick closes the book. Something mesmerizing and a little bit dangerous glimmers in his dark eyes. The corners of his full lips twitch upward. “Everyone deserves to have their toes curled, don’t you think?”
My ribs seize, halting my breath. Discussing sexy artwork with this gorgeous professor is a weird combination of awkward and titillating, but this is tipping into flat-out flirtation. Nick’s warmth, his husky voice, the erotic images laid out before us—it’s all too much. I’m hot and tingly, squirmy with embarrassment, and heavy with guilt. I’m not ready to feel this way again, despite my body’s undeniable reaction.
Time to be honest with this kind man, before he takes this any further.
I clear my throat and sit up straighter. “I’m a widow, Mr. Papa—Nick. My husband passed away a year ago.”
His teasing smile melts, and his dark eyes shine with emotion. “I’m sorry, Clara. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.” He lays his hand over mine, his touch warm and gentle. “I lost my wife two years ago. Cancer.”
The tension drains from my body like water through a sieve. He understands.
“My husband is the one who took care of our…” I gesture to the open book. “…our special collection. I haven’t set foot through that door since he died. But we still get a lot of visitors wanting to see those books. They used to talk to Jared, but now I have to screen them.”
“How do you decide who’s allowed inside?”
“Gut instinct. People have a certain oily vibe when they just want to leer at dirty books. And they’d usually be disappointed. I mean, it’s mostly older stories and artwork, and most of the books are quite expensive, which keeps the perverts away. They’re hoping for cheap porn, not art.”
The corners of his mouth quirk up. “So, why did I pass the test?” Deep within his dark irises, flecks of gold catch the light.
“Well, you are a professor and all.”
“I am indeed. And you know what they say about us academics—‘Publish or perish.’ I heard about you from a colleague at the university here. I’ve been under pressure to publish something new, so…” He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “I made a list of titles I’d like to buy for my department. It might take a few days to get an okay from our chairwoman. If I send you the titles, will you hold them for me?”
That means he’ll be back, giving me time to reflect on my reaction to this deliciously disturbing man.
As if reading my mind, he adds, “I’d really appreciate your help. And if I can’t get funding, I’ll buy them myself. These books are nearly as fascinating as their owner.”
I gape like a goldfish, then fold my hands in my lap and paste on a pseudo-calm smile. “I’d be glad to hold the books for you, Nick.”
I’d be glad to hold anything he wants me to hold.
For a terrifying moment, I’m sure I said those words aloud. I take a deep, trembling breath.
So does Nick. He gives my hand a final squeeze. When we stand up, I notice the top of my head only comes to his chin. I’ve always had a weakness for tall men, especially ones with deep, velvety voices, sparkling dark eyes, devilish smiles—
I squash those dangerous thoughts into an iron-clad box and slam the lid. This is a business connection we’re forging, a potentially valuable one. “Right. I look forward to seeing you soon.”
“Not as much as I look forward to seeing you, Clara.” My name slides off his tongue like a caress.
As I walk toward my shop, the heavy warmth of his gaze heats my back. Just to be sure, when I reach the sidewalk, I turn for one last glimpse. He’s still watching, a mysterious half-smile on his lips.
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