Page 3 of Sexting the Pakhan

I make myself hold his gaze, mostly because looking away now would be worse. “Then I’m clearly growing as a person.”

That almost-smile appears again, brief and restrained and somehow more devastating than if he’d actually laughed. He steps a little closer, reaching past me toward the upper shelf. His sleeve brushes the air near my shoulder, not quite touching, but close enough that I feel it anyway. My whole body goes sharply aware.

He pulls out a book and glances at the title. “Would you recommend this?”

I look.

A History of Siege Warfare.Of course that’s what he picked.

“Honestly?”

“I’d prefer it.”

“No,” I say. “It’s dense. Unless you enjoy reading six hundred pages that make you feel like you’re being lectured to by a very smug historian.”

He looks at the book, then back at me. “You say that confidently.”

“You returnedThe Romanovsin four days last week,” I say before I can stop myself. “So I assume you read quickly.”

The moment the words are out, I realize what I’ve admitted.

That I remember what he borrows. That I notice.

His eyes rest on mine for a second longer than before. “You remember what I borrowed.”

Not a question.

I scramble for something normal to say. “I work here.”

It’s a pathetic answer. We both know it. I remember what lots of people borrow, but not like this. Not down to the titles, the dates, the patterns. Not in a way that makes me spend entirely too much time wondering what kind of man reads military history and poetry with equal focus.

Still, after a beat, he nods like he’ll accept it. “Then what would you recommend?”

“For history?”

“For me.”

My fingers tighten around the book in my hand.

I don’t know if he means anything by that. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this is just how regular people talk and I’ve become so hopelessly invested in him that every sentence sounds loaded. But the way he says it makes the whole aisle feel too small all of a sudden. Like the space between us has changed.

I turn to the shelf because I need a second to think.

“If you want something less dry,” I say, scanning spines, “Barbara Tuchman is good. Antony Beevor, depending on the period. Or…” I trail off when my hand lands on a familiar title. “This.” I pull it free and turn back to him.

He looks down at the cover.The Name of the Rose.

There’s a pause, and then that low sound again, almost a laugh. “A murder mystery in a monastery.”

“It’s about books too,” I say, suddenly defensive.

“And this made you think of me?”

I can feel the heat climbing my neck all over again.

“I mean, not you specifically,” I say. “Just your… borrowing profile.”

He takes the book from my hand. His fingers brush mine, just for a second, but that second lands everywhere.