Leather Bound. Shanna Germain
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as I often did, if books could feel us, if our very touch was enough to bring them alive. And I wondered, specifically, if they could feel Davian’s hands on them, what the soft stroke of his fingers felt like to their bindings, to the edges of their pages.
‘Here it is,’ I said, turning to face him again, one hand out towards a wide set of built-in bookcases, full of oversized first editions.
Davian lifted that single eyebrow again, clearly confused.
Yeah, I’d felt that way the first time I’d seen my office too. Of course, it hadn’t been my office then, but it was still a huge part of the reason I’d fallen in love with this space, long before we’d rented it and turned it into the store. Before Leather Bound was ours, it had been a bank, complete with a hidden swinging door for getting into the super-secret vault without attracting attention.
Friends had helped us turn the hidden door into a hidden bookshelf door for us before we opened.
I couldn’t help showing it off sometimes. I kind of loved the moment of revelation. It made me feel all Nancy Drew.
While Davian watched, I slipped a book from the shelf to expose a single keyhole. We’d had it made to fit the same skeleton key that opened the front door.
Suddenly I realised that, in my secret joy at showing off the hidden door, I’d put myself in a dilemma. I had to either try and remove the key and ribbon from around my neck – an action that was sure to end up with my hair or my earrings caught in tangles and leaving me looking incredibly stupid in front of this man – or leave the key in its current place and bend down in front of him to open the lock.
After a brief hesitation, realising that he was watching me far closer than I would have liked at the moment, I chose the latter option. If he was going to look at my ass, that was fine, but I didn’t think I could stand to look like a fool in front of him. Again, I meant. Considering I’d already done it once. Or twice. I couldn’t quite remember.
I bent and slipped the key in the hole. The skirt of my dress suddenly felt too short and too flimsy to cover my ass, even though I knew it did. Please let this look good on me, I thought stupidly, selfishly. Not at all professionally.
Lily and I had secret codes for lots of things – ‘I have a stone in my shoe’ meant ‘You have something in your teeth’ and ‘I need a raspberry lemonade’ meant ‘It’s time for us to leave this party/bar/guy’s house.’ But we didn’t have a secret code for ‘the hot guy behind you is staring at your ass in that skirt while you bend over in front of him.’ So I couldn’t tell if he was or not. I also couldn’t tell if I would have minded.
I stood, giving my butt a quick shake to make sure the fabric fell back into the right places, and then slipped the key back into its place between my breasts.
The bookshelf opened outward, exposing the small office hidden behind it.
‘Nice,’ he murmured, and I couldn’t tell if he meant the hidden door, the office or my ass. Was it so wrong that I secretly hoped it was all three?
I held the door for him, noting that he was tall enough that he kind of had to duck to get through it. Thankfully, the ceiling was higher, and he could stand upright as soon he got inside.
I followed him, stepping into a room that, if anyone cared to look, showcased more of my personality than any other place in the world.
A big ancient solid oak desk took up all of one corner of the office. I’d bought it at a garage sale and then paid all my and Lily’s friends in pizza and beer to help me get it in here. It was so big we’d had to take the secret door off its hinges just to fit it. It had one leg shorter than the others, a flaw that our friend Conrad had fixed for me by stuffing an old book under it. I loved it like no other piece of furniture.
The desk’s wide surface had nothing on it except my laptop and a pile of books I’d been using for another client’s research. Normally, I was a clutter bug, but I’d spent a whole month sanding down and then re-varnishing my baby, and there was no way I wasn’t going to look at it (OK, and run my hands over it, if I was going to be honest with myself) every chance I got.
I beckoned to the chair across from the desk, a double theatre seat that I’d scavenged from a dilapidated cinema a couple of years ago. Davian glanced at it before he settled himself into the folding seats. He could have taken up both, but he didn’t. Instead, he sat on one, crossing his long legs to the outside as though someone was already sitting in the seat next to him. His jeans were dark, with just a hint of wear at the creases of his pockets. His grey shirt showed off his shoulders and the width of his chest.
While the seat next to him was tempting – oh, God, was it tempting – I knew myself better than that. There was no way I’d be able to sit that close to him and not touch him, accidentally or otherwise. Instead, I lowered myself to sit on a corner of the desk. I had a notebook in one of the drawers here somewhere, but I couldn’t be bothered to look away from him long enough to get it right now. I’d just have to wing it.
‘How did you hear about us?’ I asked, mostly just to hear his voice. ‘If you don’t mind. Most people don’t just walk in our doors looking for invisible books.’
‘It’s not invisible,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘It’s non-existent.’
He opened his briefcase, the two copper toggles slipping with ease through the rich, dark leather. As he scanned the contents, I found myself scanning him, my gaze travelling the length of him, from the single dark curl that fell across his forehead to the open neck of his button-up shirt, to his broad shoulders and slim hips. I wanted permission to reach across the room and slip that very top button through its hole, just one, to find out what lay hidden underneath.
I liked the way he took up a space. The fold of his body had a presence that felt solid and real, without needing to make more of itself. Even his fingers, shifting the papers as he looked through them, contained a quiet strength that I found appealing.
Davian pulled out a small rectangle of vanilla-hued paper and held it out between two fingers. Even before I took it, I knew what it was.
What I didn’t know was how he had got hold of it.
I turned it over, face-up, and stared down at it.
Leather Bound, handwritten in dark red with Lily’s calligraphic swirl. Another brilliant idea of mine that had turned out to be not so brilliant after all. Before we opened, I decided we were going to hand-ink all of our business cards, to give them a personal feel. I made one, realised my handwriting sucked, and then handed the project over to Lily, who’d studied art in college. She’d gotten through about twenty of them before we both decided it was my worst idea ever. Lily hadn’t even offered her usual ‘I told you so’s. She just went out and had some real ones made by an actual printer.
We’d never given these handwritten cards out to customers and definitely not to strangers. Only to a few close friends and supporters, the people who’d helped get Leather Bound off the ground, financially or legally or emotionally.
I’m a bad liar and even worse at keeping my mouth shut. So I couldn’t not ask the thing that was in my brain.
‘Where did you get this?’ I asked. ‘We’ve never met.’
I’m decent with faces, but I’m not as good as Lily. I’m better with voices. I can hear one note from a singer and tell you who it is and how recent it is. But a face like Davian’s? I would have remembered him. Without a doubt.
‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve never met.’
‘Then where did you get this?’ It was an invasive question, but I asked it quietly, and he didn’t seem put off by it.
‘A … friend,’ he said. With a just-long-enough pause that I could almost read what he wasn’t saying. Perhaps a former lover. Or someone he desired. Clearly someone he didn’t want to talk about.
Despite my curiosity, I let it go. For now. I was good at digging. It’s what I did. But privacy is