Rake: A Dark Boston Irish Mafia Romance (The Carneys Book 1) - Sophie Austin Page 0,35

good. You don’t need them. You just need the opportunity to shine.”

“And the polish, Finn. I don’t have the polish. You know it’s true.”

She gives me a pleading look that almost breaks me. If I ask again she’ll come with me. That knot forms in my stomach again. She is right that people will judge her appearance. But even in her cheap clothes with no makeup on, she’s beautiful.

“Please?”

She sighs and eases out of the car. It’s too high for her, so I take her by the waist and help her down before getting her crutches and leading her up to the big red door. I’m surprised to find it’s more than just being seen together that drives me on. I want to share this place with her.

“There are open hours for the public,” I say, “but you’re right that most of the good stuff is reserved for paying members. You have to make appointments to see most of the collections.”

I rest my hand on the small of her back as I show her the general stacks and the artwork. People watch us. Sasha is self-conscious, and she’ll be even more so when she realizes there’s a photographer here. I want to keep her mind off of that if I can and lead her into the quiet reading room by the Chief Conservator’s office.

I pull out a chair, and she sits while I pick up a book I’d asked to be pulled for me earlier this morning.

“It’s an original edition of Burns’ poetry,” I say, handing it to her. “They’ve got the majority of Washington’s library from Mount Vernon. This was in that collection, and it’s even signed by him.”

She holds it gingerly, running her fingers across the worn leatherboard cover. She traces the gold lyres embossed on the cover, and I’m mesmerized watching her fingertips glide across its surface.

I sit beside her and drape my arm on the back of her chair.

She opens it carefully and turns the pages like she’s holding a relic. It strikes a chord with me. I’ve seen so many people treat the treasures here cavalierly. It’s always the richest members. The people who’ve never had to make something last because they couldn’t afford a replacement. But there are some things that can’t be replaced.

I gaze at Sasha’s face as she pages thoughtfully through the book. Her expression is placid, almost reverent, but I suddenly feel stupid for showing her this. Maybe I’m making too many assumptions about what she cares about, and even if she does like books the way I do, it’s foolish of me to prove her point further—that my family and I have access to things others don’t, and there’s no real reason for it other than money. My father would say it was a result of his hard work, but he doesn’t work harder than the woman sitting next to me. And she has so little to show for it.

While I’m going to do what it takes to maintain my hold on those properties, and to keep the casino successful long enough to pay off the loans, my interactions with Sasha have expanded the possibilities in my mind of what I’ll with the income from them. I don’t like how quickly she’s made an impact on me.

She closes the book and looks up at me. I’m self-conscious now, feeling naked in a way I never do.

“I thought you might like to see it,” I offer. It’s hollow to even my own ears. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles sweetly at me.

“It’s wonderful,” she says. “Thank you. I never thought I’d get to touch something Burns signed. My grandma would be thrilled. The only thing she’d like better would be Bonny Prince Charlie’s underwear or something.”

I laugh and smooth the hair she’d pushed behind her ear.

“I don’t know if they have those, but I’ll ask.”

“Might raise some eyebrows.”

God I love her smile.

Her pull is magnetic. I lean forward and kiss her, softly, next to her mouth. I start to pull away, and she stops me, pressing her lips to mine.

And it’s that exact moment the photographer catches.

He’s gone before either of us can blink the flash away.

“What was that about?” she asks.

“I guess there’s an event happening?”

I know there is, but the less Sasha knows the better.

“Figures,” she says, running her hands over her hair.

“Don’t worry, my big head was in most of the shot.”

It’s true, but I’d be asked later who the mystery lady was,