Page 73 of Maximum Dare
I looked down at her. “Want me to bring you anything?”
“No, thank you.” Her hair spilled over the pillow like silk and she’d raised her arms above her head unconsciously languishing in an erotic pose, a nipple peeking above the sheet.
I wanted to bury my hands in those beautiful locks and lavish her body with kisses.
This was how I would remember her. Just like this.
I headed for the door, then paused and rested my forehead against it as I felt the pull of her stare. The pulse of our connection ever present.
She should have been The One.
“I wish I’d met you before him,” I said, my voice deep and full of anguish.
This longing I felt to stay with her was all-consuming.
I forced myself to open the bedroom door, willed myself to walk down the stairs and out of the house.
Later, when I entered my hotel room and collapsed on the bed, I couldn’t remember climbing into my car and driving across town.
I stared up at the ceiling with my stomach in knots, the loneliness suffocating me.
I lay there knowing I’d done the right thing by walking away. As the hours ticked by, I tried to think of anything or anyone but Daisy.
Once through the doors of the Quinto Bookshop, the heady scent of ancient paper woos you, keeping you entranced amongst the tomes.
This is what I needed, to immerse myself in this antiquated refuge for book lovers, keeping busy so I didn’t think about the way Max made me feel, knowing that our short burst of happiness was over. I didn’t want to mull over how his kisses felt like life itself. Or how incredible it was to lie naked beside him.
Or that I’d let him leave this morning when I should have grabbed his ankles and refused to let him go. Okay, that would only have scared him away faster…
Think about the books.
Remember why you’re here.
Taking my time, I searched their well-stocked shelves for an exceptional collector’s item that would be a perfect gift for Aunt Barbara. I had no doubt there was a first edition here waiting to be discovered, then cherished by her forever.
Tracing the spines with delicate fingers, I moved along a line of hardbacks. My heart skipped a beat when I found one she’d adore, an original copy ofThe Tale of Peter Rabbitby Beatrix Potter. Perfectly preserved with a colored drawing of Peter Rabbit on the cover.
When I opened the hardback and saw it had been printed in 1901, I knew it would be expensive. Still, my aunt had opened her doors to me and made me feel at home. I wanted to splurge a little on her birthday.
After peeling open the first page, I sucked in my shock at the price. “Bloody hell!”
The book cost a thousand pounds.
Self-consciously, I threw a cheeky smile over at the young man behind the counter. He gave me a knowing look back. Beside him sat an antique till that gave the place character. That was what I loved about this shop, its quaintness. Its prices, not so much.
I slid the book back and said, “As if.”
From behind a bookshelf, another customer coughed loudly, hinting that my outburst had bothered them.
Okay, Mr. Quiet Police.But a thousand pounds is too much for a book. For me, anyway.
Continuing my search, I found a hardback second edition ofHarry Potter.Its conditionlooked flawless. My heart stopped when I saw the swirl of a signature on the first page—it had been signed by J. K. Rowling.
“Oh, my God!” Barbara would love this one.
“Shush,” came the chastisement from the same man behind the bookcase.
I poked out my tongue in the stranger’s direction.
