storage unit, with plans on finding her own place once Brandon was sentenced, but I told her it was nonsense to spend the money on storage when I had more than enough space for her things here.
I carry in each box, setting them on the floor in my study, and when all seven are inside, I relock the garage door and grab my phone off the kitchen counter on my way back to the study, and I see I have a notification.
Astrid: Inside the gym. Johnna talked me into doing another barre class. Something about releasing lactic acid. It’s 45 mins. Your hot tub and Epsom salt will likely be needed when I get home. *grimace emoji
Me: Not at the same time, but I can definitely make that happen. Kick ass, goddess.
I turn on my Bluetooth speaker and connect my phone, scrolling through my music until I find what I’m looking for, and soon Breaking Benjamin’s “Breath” fills the room. My study has floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases, wall-to-wall, no window, the only break in shelves being the door. There’s a dark wooden desk that’s much like the one in my office at work, just a smaller version, and there’s an overstuffed brown leather couch and armchair in the center of the room with a table and overhanging lamp between them.
I walk around the room, determining which two bookcases have the least amount to move to make room then decide to give Astrid her own corner, even with the extra work. Soon, I’ve got not two, but four bookcases designated for her books, which will have room to spare for new ones she might want to add. If I have it my way, she’ll never leave, and I’ll build her own damn library for her that she can fill with whatever books she desires. But I’ll keep that little tidbit to myself so I don’t freak her out. We made great strides yesterday and this morning, and she left earlier calling this home, but nothing has been discussed as far as her never moving out.
I pick up one box of books and carry it over to the couch, setting it down and opening the crisscrossed flaps of cardboard. Sure enough, I look down into an entire box of shirtless men in various bottoms from kilts to suit pants, and I shake my head with a chuckle. I pull out a stack and carry them over to the first bookcase, setting them on a random shelf. I do this back and forth until the box is empty, and then I take the time to organize them, seeing a lot have the same authors. She likes series, and one of them I find has nearly twenty books. I make sure they all sit on two shelves of their own, leaving space in case another book is scheduled to come out.
I break down the empty box and stand it against the armchair, picking another box and bringing it over. This one is full of much the same, small mass market paperbacks, these seeming to be paranormal in nature, seeing as the cover models have sharp fangs to go along with their rippled torsos. I stack them on the shelves, straightening the spines and matching the author names.
The third box I open makes me laugh. It’s full of every VB Lowe book ever written. The author just happens to be none other than Vivian Lowe, wife of Corbin Lowe, one of the men on my security/mercenary team and co-owner of my Club Alias. I feel the smile on my face the entire time I set up Vi’s books in Astrid’s new bookcase, thinking about my friend and his wife’s story. Talk about fate. Ten years after they divorced, Vi had contacted a Dom at my club who turned out to be Seth, Astrid’s sister Twyla’s now-husband. Vi was looking to interview a real-life Dom in order to portray the lifestyle accurately in her bestselling romance novels. Seth talked to her for months, teaching her through messages and videos all she needed to know about BDSM for her books, and little did he know, since she went by her penname, he was actually speaking to Corbin’s ex-wife. He found out very quickly once Corbin saw her name.
When Vi showed up to the club to watch some BDSM scenes in the flesh, she was greeted by the Dom/owner she believed she had become friends with online, but unbeknownst to her, it was Corbin beneath the hooded mask. So