Page 3 of Haunted Desires
It’s on the shelf right in front of Finley. A little farther down than the book I just put back.
“I was looking for—” I point. “It’s that red one, if you could?—”
He grabs the book off the shelf and passes it to me. Our fingers brush together on the old leather, and I feel the heat of that touch all up my arm. A quiet gasp comes from somewhere nearby, like an echo. Did I do that? Or was it someone else?
Thump, thump, thump, my heart pounds.
Finley hasn’t broken contact. I don’t pull my hand away. He just stops and waits, and I stop, too, finally managing to look up into his dark eyes.
They’re very dark. The red in his cheeks is pretty dark, too. I’m almost transfixed by it. Like he’s the one who’s been calling to me. He’s the one I should’ve been researching. He’s the one I should be studying.
I am studying him. I can’t tear my eyes away. I start to go up on tiptoe, drawn in by the electric tension between us, and he takes a short breath, tipping his head down?—
The front door of the library opens, letting in another gust of wind. “Finley?” a voice calls. “Oh, I’m freezing to death. Finley, where are you? I’m here about that hold I placed. It’s here, isn’t it?”
Clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders, Finley pulls away, turning toward the footsteps coming toward the back of the library.
But before he goes, “There are other volumes in the back,” he says quickly and quietly. “They’re only available by appointment.”
“Oh?” I say breathlessly. “When could?—”
“Tomorrow night, once the library’s closed.”
“Yes,” I agree without taking a breath. Thump, thump, thump, my heart races.
He gives me one more nod, and then he’s gone. Leaving me in more suspense than I’ve been in since I first came back home to that shop.
Hazel
Not a darn thing productive gets done for the rest of the evening. My research is stagnant as my thoughts are concerned with something else. Or rather, someone else.
How am I supposed to think when I just had an encounter like that with Finley? He’s never stood close enough to touch before. He’s never come to the back of the library by the local history section when I’m back there.
Our fingers have never touched before.
The touch still lingers.
And the way he looked at me, up and down, his eyes going dark… It was just the two of us. The tension cracked and I swear there was something there. He must feel what I feel. I know it to be so.
The way he held his breath, like he wanted to touch me but couldn’t bring himself to do it…
I leave the library well before closing and skirt the outside of the stacks. If I see him again, I’ll say something awkward, and I just don’t want the spell to break. It was too real. Too obvious.
It occurs to me on the walk home that a spell might be exactly what’s needed. My lips twitch up with hope, a spell will do nicely.
It’s a blustery night, cool and clear, and as I take in the fresh air, I can’t help but notice the energy all around me. It’s electric and powerful. The moon is the smallest sliver of a crescent. So close to the new moon.
It’s impossible to think about anything else when I can still feel the place where Finley’s fingers touched mine. It’s like I’ve veered off the path I was on and onto an unfamiliar one.
My apartment couldn’t be more familiar. More like a refuge for my racing thoughts. I live in a cute two-story apartment building with eight units. Mine is the one closest to the trees on the opposite side of the lot, which means it’s also closest to the river that runs through the woods. The backyard is nothing but trees and a few potted plants on my concrete patio. That’s a good thing in terms of energy. I like to picture the river taking away any stress or confusion I feel and replenishing the earth around it as it goes.
But a river could also carry a spell away. Delivering faster than I could on my own.
This is all I need in an apartment. I do most of my research and admin tasks for the shop from my velvet mustard yellow couch, and I’ve never needed more than one bedroom. It’s a cozy place for a single person.
Tonight, I can’t help but notice just how cozy it is. Another person couldn’t live here. Well—they could, but we’d be on top of each other, and probably sick of each other within a week.
For the first time, it occurs to me that this apartment might not be enough for the rest of my life. How am I to envision Finley on my sofa, with the colorful patterned rug beneath the wooden coffee table made of a single slab of raw wood and iron stand beneath. Surely he’ll need a leather chaise across my sofa. The thought stops me in my tracks. Oh, I can see him here.
