duty is still assisting Mika.
I stand behind him and remain as quiet as a church mouse.
Sensing my presence, Mika turns round and notices the book in my hand. “What’cha got there?” he asks casually.
“A book,” I say innocently, biting my inner lip.
“What book?” he asks with a flicker of curiosity.
I grip the book tighter. “Just one of the classics…Jane Austen,” I inform him with an air of Olde English eloquence, and with the prudence of a matronly, spinsterish aunt.
“You’re all set,” interrupts the mousy librarian.
Thankfully, he returns his attention to the front desk.
My shoulders begin to relax and I sigh with relief.
Phew! Saved by the librarian.
Suddenly, Belgium boy does the unthinkable.
He whips back unexpectedly and pries the book out of my clenched fingers. After a mad skirmish and scuffle, Mika reigns victorious, book in his hand.
“Eeeps!” A shriek escapes me and I lurch forward, determined to wrestle the book back for dear life.
Alas, it’s too late.
Mika is reading the title out loud. “Interesting...The Scottish Laird’s Virgin Bride.” His voice is playful yet tormenting, and I catch a faint glimmer of enjoyment on his face.
I fix him with a sharp, chilling stare.
Unfazed by my daggers, Mika studies the cover. The corners of his mouth begin twitching uncontrollably, and I find myself cringing and burning with shame.
Laird Iain McLean, fully decked out in a red kilt and tartan, is pictured frolicking in a celestial forest with a scantily dressed woman, whom I can only presume to be his wife, Adamina.
My face flushes hotter and hotter with utter humiliation.
Impulsively, I snatch the book back, and with as much dignity as possible, I check out my smut novel and stalk out of the library without so much as a glance back.
Mika is soon beside me.
But I am so crippled with embarrassment that I can scarcely even look at him. Awkwardly, I pretend to be preoccupied with the contents of my bag. To make matters worse, we dropped off my car at home and took Mika’s car to the library, which means I’ll have to ride home with him. Oh, the agony.
I slide into Mika’s car and remain mute.
Seconds later, the engine roars to life and we’re coasting down the freeway in his low rider Impala. The air remains heavy with my silence and Mika mistakes my embarrassment for anger.
His expression softens. “Are you mad at me?”
I smile weakly in return and shake my head.
He shifts gears and looks meaningfully at me. “There’s nothing wrong with dirty romance novels.” After a beat, he adds, “You’ll have to let me know if that’s a good one...maybe I’ll read it.”
I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “You’re not going to read it.”
He grins. “You’re right. I probably won’t be reading The Scottish Laird and his Virgin Bride any time soon.”
I laugh, and the more I think about it, Mika’s right. There’s really nothing wrong with reading trashy romance novels. It’s like eating junk food every once in a while, like an In-N-Out burger and fries with a milkshake. I crave it every so often and it hits the spot, no pun intended.
Consuming coming-of-age novels just gets old and stale after a while. Plus ‘healthy’ literature and serious fiction plays havoc with my mind. Just last month, I read The Lovely Bones and it was so dark and depressing that I almost put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger.
After reading that novel, I just had to escape to a happy place; somewhere far away, up in the Scottish Highlands. And thus, I turned to Harlequin.
Some of Harlequin’s historical titles are remarkably well written and meticulously researched, and they continually open my eyes to new facets of history. I have learned more history from romance novels than I have from eighteen years of schooling. Hmm. I realize now that I overreacted.
I flick Mika a sideways glance. “So, any plans this weekend?”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “I’ll be hitting the slopes up at Pebble Creek. We’re supposed to be getting a ton of fresh powder tonight. It’s going to be epic!”
“You’re going skiing?” I ask airily.
He puts on an indignant air. “Um, no. I’m going boarding.”
“Oh, sorrrrry,” I say with a trace of sarcasm. “I didn’t mean to ignite the feud between you riders and skiers.”
He rewards me with a wry smile. “Skiers? Could you possibly be referring to those wanker two plankers with prissy poles who deck themselves out in neon onesies?”
I giggle. “So, when you’re not tearing down the