Page 150 of Problematic

Dark built-ins climbed all the way up, punctuated with brass lights, deep shelves, arched niches, and carved trim. Romance. Fantasy. Horror. Dark romance. Monster romance. Sprayed edges. Hardcovers I had held in bookstores and put back because rent didn’t care about first printings. Whole series lined up, clean and perfect.

A rolling ladder sat on a brass rail. Deep-green leather. Polished wood. Little black wheels.

I stopped fucking breathing.

Every bookish girl fantasy I had ever mocked sat ten feet away, gleaming under the warm light.

“You . . .” My voice failed.

He said nothing.

I walked toward the shelves slowly. A reading chair waited in the corner, lush and deep, next to an ottoman made for curling up like a spoiled cat. Beside it sat a skull lamp, sticky tabs, my favorite pens, a new black cat mug, and a brass plaque that read “For Page 243 Emergencies.”

I barked a laugh that almost became a sob.

“You’re sick,” I whispered.

“We’ve established that. As you can see, there are benefits to my . . . sickness.”

“You bought me a library?”

“I have no impulse control.”

That was when I realized he was standing uncomfortably close, watching my every reaction from behind. I could smell the cologne on him, deep, rich, intoxicating. I reached the shelves and lifted my hand. My fingers brushed the spines. The first shelf held my favorites. Not just close guesses, either.

“How did you know?”

His silence said enough.

I narrowed my eyes. “Stalker.”

“Yes.”

“Lux’s boogeyman is cyberstalking my book content.”

“You save a lot of videos of libraries.”

I lowered my hands. My eyes burned. No. Absolutely not. I was not going to cry over a library and a rolling ladder in front of a masked criminal.

Behind me, his voice softened. “You spend half your life making small things feel like enough. Broken mugs. Used paperbacks. Tea you hate but buy because it’s on sale. You talk yourself out of wanting anything before the world gets a chance to deny you.”

My throat tightened so hard it hurt.

“I don’t hate that tea,” I said.

“You called it dirty plant water.”

“That was one time.”

I closed my eyes. Of course he had heard that.

There were so many times I’d stood in a bookstore holding a thirty-dollar hardcover, doing the math, then putting it back, because the electric bill had been higher than expected.

“You built this for me,” I said.

“Yes.”

“With a rolling ladder.”