The Coldest Summer✓

Eight

What's wrong with him? A strange wave of disquietude fills me.

"It's okay," I reply, my eyes bored deeply into his unsettled ones.

"A book?" He tries to compose himself, I believe, and it makes me narrow my gaze. "Shouldn't you be sleeping by now?" he asks while rising up to his feet.

"I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Darcy? Shouldn't you be sleeping in your bed instead of here?" I return boldly, replacing my previous worry.

We're a few inches apart and his gaze burns my soul.

A soft breath escapes his lips as he finally responds. "What sort of a book do you want?" He walks past me. I sigh heavily, oblivious of his question. "Ms. Jones?" His calm voice pulls me back to Earth, derailing my blank space.

Oh boy! There's a way he utters that 'Ms. Jones' and I love it.

I think I love a lot of things lately. But in short, I love the way he speaks. The combination of his voice and that British accent is such a fine tune to my ears. I quickly dismiss these unhealthy thoughts.

"Um, anything but Shakespeare's," I reply, and he looks a bit astonished. Okay, new approach. "I mean, not that I dislike him, I just want something different," I say truthfully, so as to avoid confusion. "Okay, I know you like him, or his works, but I—"

"How do you know that I like him? Or his works?" Liam queries with a faint smile.

Because he's an icon . . . maybe?

"Well," I start my scheme. "There's William Shakespeare's portrait over there." I point at it. "And also, all of his books in this library are arranged in a way that suggests how often they are read. Well, aren't you his fan?"

He whirls his head in my direction, but doesn't respond to my question. He delicately places the book he was holding on the old, wooden shelf carrying countless books.

Most are old classics from prominent authors. Fitzgerald and Charles Dickens being one of them, I also see a few from the Brontë sisters.

"Do you have something else in mind?" Liam asks in a normal tone of voice.

"Um . . . Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen," I tell him. "Or maybe . . . Sense and Sensibility?" I contradict my own choices, and he smiles at it.

"Is Jane Austen your favorite?" he quizzes, a sweet glow in his cool eyes.

"If we're speaking of Classic romance, then yes, she's my favorite. I prefer happy endings to tragedies, and Jane Austen always grants my wish. Well, all the Brontës are amazing, too." I go dreamy; oblivious of whom I'm talking to.

Liam smiles. "Are you sure Northanger Abbey is what you want?" he inquires, as though trying to correct my scruple.

Well . . . Looking around, I spot a few of Danielle Steels' books and she's one of my favorite authors.

"Can I just have that one?" I point it out.

I try to keep calm, watching him moving graciously, before he plucks a well preserved copy of Heartbeat, together with Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey. I think I'm going to stick with this one tonight—gladly rereading it.

When Liam returns, he hands me the books and says, "Not every story has a happy ending, though. Perhaps William was being realistic."

"Perhaps. But I do believe in a happy ending!" I snap, and he doesn't seem to mind at all. He smiles even. "Don't you?" I add,

"Does it matter to you?" he queries, and I just stare blankly at his so-sure kind of look. "Okay, good luck with the reading."

"Thanks for the books, but I think I'll just take this one." I return Jane Austen's, and I can tell he wants to argue, but decides against it.