Page 19 of Blackwood

“Color me completely unsurprised.” He sat at a wide work desk and looked through a lighted magnifying glass.

I hobbled into the room and rested on the arm of a threadbare sofa. This part of the house seemed fresher, more well-used than my dusty guest room. “What are you doing?”

He took a deep breath and leaned back. “Iwasworking.”

“On what?” I took a few more steps until I stood behind him.

He waved his hands at the desk. An antique book lay open in front of him. The page on the left had crisp black ink on parchment. The right hand side was faded, the letters almost indistinguishable. Small pots of ink dotted the desk, and a wide selection of quills and fountain pens sat in a coffee cup to the side. A couple of books, their bindings frayed and worn, were stacked on the edge, as if waiting for their turn under the magnifying glass.

“This is why your fingers are black.” Ink.

“Give the lady a prize.” He glanced up at me. “What did you suspect?”

“I had two theories, really.”

“Yeah?”

“Mechanicorcasual murderer who likes to dig the graves by hand.”

He laughed and shook his head, his shaggy hair giving off a clean shampoo scent. “Both excellent guesses.”

Something about his laughter sent my heart into a quicker rhythm. “So, you restore books?”

He nodded. “Collectors send me their treasures, and I get them back into good shape.”

“Seems really, um, tedious.” I scooted around him and sat on the edge of the desk. My leg needed a break.

“It is, but I enjoy it.” He leaned back and stared up at me, his face reverting to the usual look of serious disdain.

“You must have a lot of patience.”

He smirked and gave me a pointed look. “So it would seem.”

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

His gaze traveled down my body, and I wondered for the hundredth time what he was thinking. I wore a college t-shirt and shorts. Nothing fancy, but the way he looked at me made me feel as if I were wearing nothing more than skimpy lingerie.

I followed the line of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the chest hair that disappeared into his shirt. His beard had grown on me, and I’d often found myself wondering what it would feel like against my skin. I chalked it up to cabin fever. Other than a few heated looks—looks that turned my blood into lava—he’d expressed nothing but irritation over my presence.

“How did you learn how to restore books?”

He met my eyes again, his pupils wide and dark. “You aren’t the only one with an education around here.”

I played dumb. “You went to school?”

“Yes. I have two degrees in history, and my dad always had a thing for old books.”

“So he taught you?”

He nodded, but kept his gaze locked with mine. “It was just a hobby for him. Something he did as a favor for book collectors or my mom.”

“Your mom?”

“This is her library. The books over there”—He pointed to a row near the back—“were her restored section. She had several first editions, and Dad spent years restoring a handful of them.”

For once, he seemed eager to talk. His parents were a fond memory for him, something that thawed his usually icy demeanor.

“What was her favorite?” I wanted to keep him engaged, his words alive.

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