Page 128 of Cinderella Is Faking It

“I see. The opening times are 24/7, huh? And you are…” I tapped the corner where her makeshift library card said as much, my mouth twitching into a smile. “…entitled to personalized book recommendations by a qualified librarian at least twice a month?”

“If it says so on the card.” She pulled her shoulders up. “Sounds like that’s the library policy. And it’s laminated, so it can’t be changed.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. Delilah was putting down clear rules about where, how, and how much she wanted to interact with me - and she wasn’t giving me a choice. Not that I wanted one. I would have agreed to far less than two monthly conversations about books as long as it meant getting to spend time with her at all. “I do appreciate a clear policy.”

“I want to make use of my membership and borrow a book.”

“Okay, well,” my eyes slid down her body to the small lake that had formed at her feet, “you’re not setting foot in a room full of paper.”

“Fine,” she huffed and pulled at her thin sweater, only for it to snap back against her skin, “can you bring me your robe? The fluffy blue one?”

“Sure.”

When I came back to the living room, towels and robe in hand, Delilah stood in the exact same spot where I’d left her, eyes on the growing puddle beneath her. I tossed a towel down at her feet and it was soaked instantly. She slipped out of her shoes and stepped onto the dry corner of the towel.

“How much do you want to crawl out of your skin right now?” I asked, handing her a towel. She may have looked calm and collected, but I had a feeling she was going through sensory hell.

“I’m okay-ish,” she replied as she clamped the towel through her hair, “better once the wet clothes are off, but at least it’s just water.” She handed the towel back and before I had a second to even consider turning around, she wiggled her jeans down her legs. They squelched against the floor. Her legs had turned as pink as her face, her veins working overtime to keep her warm. Even though I figured it was coming next, I didn’t even pretend to look away when she pulled the sweater off and dropped it onto the towel. Judging by the mismatched cotton underwear, she hadn’t planned tonight to go this way, but that didn’t stop my body from coming alive at the sight of her smooth skin and soft curves.

“Robe?”

She held out a hand, but instead of passing the robe, I opened it and stepped toward her. She slipped one arm in, then the other, and I fixed the collar around her neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the narrow space between us.

“The August Beckett Library frowns upon its members dying of hypothermia.”

“I didn’t read about that in the policy.” She giggled and watched as I tugged the fabric around her middle.

“It’s an unspoken rule.”

She laughed, but the sound died in her throat, replaced by a hitched gasp when I tightened the belt around her waist. That sound burrowed straight down my center to my hips, and I had to focus hard on tying a simple bow and letting my hands fall to my sides afterward. Just to be safe, I pushed them into my pockets. “All done.”

“Books please.”

I led her upstairs, aware of every inch of space between us. Her fingers trailed over some of the book spines before she turned to the one shelf she’d always turned to, and deliberately pulled one book from its rows.

“The Milkmaid Diaries?” I asked, brows raised, as she held up the pornstar’s autobiography.

“Yep.” She flipped it open, not even acknowledging my skeptical tone.

“You made a fake library card, laminated it, drove here at 9pm, walked five blocks through the rain, for the Milkmaid Diaries?”

“Yep. Hold on. I marked the passage.”

“Sure.”

“Got it,” she smiled and tapped her finger against the page. “For a lot of people sex and love go hand-in-hand. You can certainly have sex without love, and you can love without sex. Yet, most people would argue that the best sex they have ever had has been with a loved one. To me, however, sex has always been about trust. I am able to trust my co-stars because we often have long-standing relationships and understand each other and the roles we play. I am unable to trust the guy I just met on Tinder who claimed to be 6ft tall but, in reality, barely matches my 5’8”. Trust is built and earned, and once I trust someone, I can allow myself to be vulnerable with them in a way that makes sex worth having.”

“Good quote.”

“I marked this the first day I spent at your apartment.” She swallowed and lowered the book, her azure eyes finding me across the room, swimming with a warmth she hadn’t shown in two months.

The deep hollow inside me gnawed at my stomach, eating away at me with every flicker of useless, stubborn hope. My voice came out raspy, strained: “Delilah, why are you here?”

She took a step closer, then another one, before flipping the book over. “Read the margin.”

Next to the paragraph she’d highlighted in pastel blue, she had written three little words: “I trust Beck.”

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