When I was young, maybe seven or eight, I used to hide frequently. My favorite place in the house was the library. It was full of heavy furniture to duck behind, and an empty sideboard I could wriggle into, complete with doors I could hold closed with the tips of my fingers.

In the beginning, I did it because I wanted attention. (So they said—and they were right.) I fervently wanted someone to worry and search for me. Anyone. Everyone. Just her… Just my mother. She never did.

Eventually, I grew tired of the anticipation that inevitably led to disappointment. I stopped hiding and started escaping. Still to the library. No one was ever there, but in the emptiness were millions of voices. Thousands of books, purchased by someone who did it for a living—built libraries worthy of kings.

When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, for a time I answered, a Library Maker.

The books were pristine. Untouched. For a child such as I, it was paramount to discovering hidden treasure. Never had I smelled anything as fine as fresh paper and sweet ink on an unread page.

So many stories. Voices. Such refinement, torture, and triumph. I escaped again and again, for hours upon hours. Vonnegut and Salinger. Fitzgerald and Hemingway. Faulkner, Dickens, and Twain. C.S. Lewis and James Joyce. Angelou, Austen, and Morrison. Stein and Beckett. Ayn Rand and Asimov and Tolkien. The philosophers, too: ancient to modern. Plato, Locke, Aquinas, and Descartes. More, more, more.

When I was caught at twelve years old, it was my mother who found me. I’d lost track of time and missed my piano lesson. Along with our housekeeper Maria and my unlucky siblings, she’d searched seven thousand square feet of house.

Suffice to say, my mother wasn’t pleased. Neither was I. She was five years too late.

I was punished, and the punishment was cruel. From that day forth, the library doors were locked, the key hidden. The only treasures I managed to steal away were the two slim volumes I’d been reading when discovered.

A book of poetry by Rainer Maria Rilke. And Richard Bach’s, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah.

* * *

It’s not quite ten in the morning when I reach the office. I’ve only been awake four hours but it feels like forty. Matthew is out, Alice is on the phone, and Adam is searching in a filing cabinet for God knows what. Only one other person is present, and he’s number three on the current list of men I’d prefer to never see again, right behind Damien and Alex.

Michael Collins sits at his desk, dark gaze fixed on his computer screen. In addition to being a talented architect and an invaluable member of the firm, he’s also the only man besides Damien I’ve slept with.

It isn’t Michael’s fault that I’d rather pull out my fingernails than talk to him right now. He’s one of the kindest men I’ve ever known. Clever, handsome, great sense of humor. Soft-spoken and gentle.

After Damien left me, I took to working long hours to avoid the condo. When I was there, memories followed me like ghosts from room to room. It stayed that way—horrible, painful—until Lillian moved in and we redecorated the entire space.

A month after the breakup, Michael stopped by the office one night, having forgotten some paperwork for a meeting in the morning. It was late, close to eleven. I was crying at my desk. He held me, stroked my hair.

I kissed him first, desperate to feel something besides pain. Aware, too, of his feelings for me. Being a gentleman, he tried to stop me. Until I pulled down his pants.

Even though it’s been almost two years, I still can’t look at the couch in the corner of the office without feeling a rush of shame.

“Thea, hey,” Michael says as I reach my desk. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

That’s Michael—the most decent man on Earth. He never blamed me for my deplorable behavior after we had sex. (I ignored his calls, ignored him, until he finally stopped trying to get through to me.) Not once since has he been anything but kind.

Because of his efforts, our working relationship survived. It’s outstanding, in fact, which only adds to the torture. For Michael is exactly the type of man Lillian spoke of: steady and stable, someone who would earn my trust before asking for my heart. I never gave him a chance, and now it’s far too late.

“Good,” I lie. “How are you?”

His brown eyes warm with a smile. “Really good, thanks. I heard about the Hemlock contract. Freaking out yet?”

I can’t help it—I laugh. He’s just so goddamned nice. “Not yet. I guess it hasn’t sunk in. Six weeks is a ridiculous timeframe. Plus, right now the real pressure is on Matthew, Adam, and the contractor.”

Michael grins and dimples appear. Life, I decide for the millionth time, just isn’t fair.

“Any word on who we’re going with?”

I shrug. “Probably Stevens. He’s the best and fastest, and God knows Alex Hughes can foot the bill.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Michael leans back and clasps his hands behind his head, further disheveling his messy brown hair. “What have you been up to besides coloring books?”

It’s an inside joke between us, a play on the reputation architects and interior designs have for wanting to throttle each other. I shrug. “Same old. Dodging bullets for my espionage sideline.”

He laughs. “You do look pretty spy-like in all black.”

I pull an imaginary gun from my hip and shoot him. He gasps, clutching his chest. “No, I’m hit!”

Adam laughter floats over us. “You guys are idiots!” he calls.

Michael and I look at each other questioningly. “We’re smart, right?” I ask.

He nods sagely. “Super geniuses.”

“That’s what I thought,” I say, and sink into my chair. There are six new messages from Mrs. Thompson on the center of my desk. I groan and spin the chair to face Michael. “What are you doing right now?”

His eyes drag away from the computer. “This second or in general?”

“Both. Want to go on a field trip to Del Mar with me?”

“Ohh, safari in the wild. What’s up there? Camels and zebras? I could go for a camel ride, actually. That sounds invigorating.”

I laugh and throw a pencil at him. “You’re such a dork. Remember Mrs. Thompson?”

“Hell no,” he says immediately. “Not going.”

“I’ll buy you lunch…”

“Nope.”

“Ice cream?”

“Negative.”

“Umm…”

He whispers, “Triple latte.”

“Triple latte!” I yell victoriously.

Eyes back on his computer screen, he smiles. “Give me an hour?”

“Absolutely.”

Feeling light of spirit (the guilt will come later), I hop to my feet and head to the section of the office dominated by bookshelves. The bottom levels are mostly mine, full of sample boards and binders. As I search for the appropriate bamboo selection, I don’t think of Alexander Hughes.

I don’t think of his fingers in mine. His eyes and voice. I don’t think of him telling me the story of the clinging creatures, which I lied to him about knowing. I know the story by heart. And I definitely don’t think about the hurt that flashed in his eyes when I threw the story back in his face.

Alex Hughes is not gentle—not like Michael—but he has been kind. I have seen softness, even tenderness in him. And I have seen the other, the darker side that makes my blood run hot.

He is dominant, controlling, and infuriating. But he also watched me sleep, looking, as Lillian said, like a little boy with his first puppy.

I can’t stop staring at your photograph.

I hear Nicole’s words—you left this morning before I woke up—and I wonder if I interpreted them wrongly.

There is a small kernel of hope in my chest. It’s bright—a miniature sun—but it doesn’t warm me. It merely throws into stark relief the darkness surrounding it. Jealousy, fear, disgust. The weakness of longing and need. My need for Alex Hughes.

Five days of knowing him, and he’s under my skin in a way no man has been before.

“Thea?” asks Michael. I look up from the binder in my lap, blinking into focus his smiling face. “You were totally zoned out. Ready to go?”

I gape. “It’s been an hour?”

He checks his watch. “A little over, actually. Deep thoughts?”

I toss the binder back onto the shelf. “You could say that.”

* * *

When I walk into the condo that evening, I find Lillian and Jeremy parked on the couch yelling at the television—or each other, I can’t really tell. Bemused and a little wary, I deposit my purse by the door and approach them. There’s an empty bottle of wine, a half-full one, and two glasses on the coffee table.

“He’s a total dick! Let him rot!”

Jeremy gasps. “Ohh! You did not just diss him like that!”

“You’re sexist!”

“I’m not sexiest, I’m gay!”

“That makes zero sense! Wait—maybe it does.”

I clear my throat and speak over the television, “Uhh, guys? Before the pillow fight starts, are we planning to have food with our booze tonight?”

Their heads swivel toward me. Jeremy recovers first, yelling, “Thea!” and leaping from the couch to grab me in his arms. Although slender of build, the man is seriously strong.

I wheeze out, “Straightjacketing me, Jer.”

He laughs and releases me, but before I can move out of reach, he seizes my hands. In seconds we’re twirling around the living room. He dips me dramatically, then whips me up so fast my head spins. Laughing, I shove playfully at his chest.

Lillian yells, “We’re celebrating, Thebes!”

I yell back, “You can turn the television down if you don’t want to yell!”

Her mouth forms a little ‘o’ before she giggles and mutes the TV. “Good call. Like I said, we’re celebrating.” She winks repeatedly and jerks her head toward Jeremy. Being sober and of sound mind, I roll my eyes at the unnecessary hinting.

I ask Jeremy, “Does this mean I get massages for life?”

“Yes, Thea-love! Thanks to you, I got the job!”

“Not only that,” says Lillian, “he’s going to be a lead, overseeing and training the newer servers.”

“Shit, Jer, that’s awesome,” I say, surprised and proud. “That had nothing to do with me. You must have impressed the hell out of A-Alex.” I trip over the name and wince as Lillian quirks a brow.

Jeremy glances between us, glassy eyes trying to connect dots he can’t see. I sidle into the kitchen for another wine glass, hoping no one follows. No such luck—they’re right behind me like hungry cats.

“A package came for you this afternoon,” says Lillian, smiling broadly. At my look of panic, she blurts, “No! It was nothing weird. Well, unless a billionaire at the door is weird. Is that weird?”

“Pretty weird,” notes Jeremy. “But hot. Super, super hot.”

“Alex was here?” I croak.

She nods and leaves the kitchen, returning moments later to hand me a small, newspaper-wrapped item secured with twine. I study the exact, tight creases of the paper and how perfectly the script sits on the horizontal. Already half-convinced that Alex himself did the wrapping, the visible article confirms it. It’s an exposé on gardening in the desert.

I laugh.

“What’s funny?” asks Lillian.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Rude!” she wails. “How is it that you two have inside jokes already?”

I ignore her and unknot the twine. The paper peels away in my hands. I glimpse blue, and immediately know what it is. My heart starts racing. Wrapping falls forgotten to the floor as I stare at the revealed book. Black, starry background and blue feather. It’s pristine, but I can feel it’s age.

I open the cover.

“First Edition, signed copy,” I murmur. For a moment, I wonder how the hell he acquired it in one day. Then I remember: billionaire.

“Is that super valuable or something?” asks Jeremy.

I blink with effort. “Um, not especially. The book really isn’t that old. It’s maybe three or four hundred dollars. But… but…”

“Thebes?” asks Lillian gently.

I gaze around blindly, then lurch into motion. “I need to be alone for a minute. Sorry, guys.”

“Are you okay?” asks Jeremy, but I don’t reply. I snatch my purse from the floor and head down the hallway. “Lil, is she okay?”

“Yes,” she says. “Don’t worry about Thebes.”

I enter my bedroom, flip on the light, and close the door. My knees give out just as I reach the bed. For a while, I sit listlessly, staring down at the book in my lap.

My copy from childhood is gone. Stolen or lost. Missing for eight years.

The weekend after telling my mother I wanted to transfer to art school, I’d driven home to speak with her in person. My old bedroom had been stripped of personality. Nothing left but sterile clothes, shoes, and jewelry—and empty drawers and blank walls.

Something broke in me that day, as I searched fruitlessly for my belongings. The only ones that mattered. I never found them, not one book, photograph, or old diary. Eventually, I replaced the poetry book by Rilke, but never Illusions. Though I’d been tempted several times, something always stopped me.

I lift the book to my nose and breathe deeply, exulting in the faint mustiness of old paper and timeless words. The pages loosen and an insert falls onto my thighs. I lift the sheet, unfold it, and stare at Alex’s bold, slanted handwriting.

I know the quote—of course I know it. What I don’t know is the intent behind it. An explanation? A challenge? It’s not an apology, that much is certain.

I retrieve my phone from my purse and text him: Thank you.

He doesn’t reply.