Make Me Bad - R.S. Grey Page 0,29

flip on the light. I don’t use this room as often as I should, especially considering how much money I put into it during the renovation. An interior designer picked out all the countertops and finishes, assuring me my wife would love every detail.

Wife.

My stomach clenches at the thought and I swear my house has never felt quieter or more isolating.

I pull open my pantry door, looking for a late-night snack, and settle on the best comfort food of them all: sugary cereal. I pour myself a bowl, sit down at the oversized marble island, and try to ignore the hard object poking me in the ribs. I eat a few bites before I cave and reach into the inner lining of my jacket, feeling for The Divine Comedy.

Yeah, I stole it.

I guess I’m more of a criminal than I thought. First a misdemeanor, and now petty theft.

I slide it onto the counter in front of me and take another bite of cereal, staring at it. I didn’t steal it because I want her panties. I’m not going to take them out and do weird shit with them; I just couldn’t leave them in Jake’s house. They don’t belong to him.

Her book choice was interesting—I’ll give her that much. She compared me to Virgil the other day, and I suppose she’s continuing the inside joke. I wonder, though, if I open it on a whim, will my finger land on the circle of hell designed for thieves or the one reserved for lustful sinners? Apparently, I’m both.

I can’t believe I pulled her into that library. That was stupid, reckless. Her brother could have found us. Worse, I could have acted on the all-consuming urge I had to kiss her while he was in the room, when I was pressed up against her and her dress was nearly see-through, when I watched her wet her bottom lip and then take it between her teeth. Her green eyes were staring up at me with such sincere openness. I could have seen the outline of her soul if I’d looked hard enough. Every emotion was right there, brimming on the surface. She was afraid to get caught, but more than that, she was excited. Every part of her was begging for a kiss.

Maybe I should have done it.

No.

I jerk the thought out of my head. I’ve moved on from my attraction to Madison. I’m not in her life for that. I finish my last bite of cereal and load my bowl into the dishwasher. After, I slam it closed a little harder than necessary and am about to switch off the kitchen light when I turn back and swipe the book off the island.

I have to see the color at least.

Just that.

They’re pale blue and lacy.

Fuck.

I’m not on the schedule at the library again until next Saturday. I know because I have an email waiting for me when I arrive at work first thing on Monday morning. It’s short and to the point.

From: MadisonHartRosenbergLibrary

To: BenRosenbergRosenbergSteinLaw

Subject: Volunteering

Hi Ben,

If it works for you, I’ll need you at the library this Saturday at 8:00 AM. You’ll be helping with toddler story time.

See you then,

Madison Hart

Children’s Librarian, Rosenberg Library

Below all of that is a phone number. On a whim, I text it.

Ben: Hey, this is Ben. I just got your email. Saturday morning is fine.

She texts back right away.

Madison: Oh, great!

Madison: Also, maybe I should clarify that this is my personal phone number, not my work number.

Another text pops up right after that one.

Madison: I can get you the number to my work phone at the library if you’d rather have that?

Why in the world would I want that?

Ben: This is fine.

A little bubble pops up to show she’s typing a reply. It disappears. Then another one pops up in its place. It disappears too. She’s obviously overthinking whatever she’s about to tell me. If she were here in person, I’d shake her and tell her to spit it out.

Finally, a new message appears.

Madison: Okay, great. I just didn’t want to make things too personal if you’d rather leave them professional.

Another text immediately follows that one.

Madison: I feel like I’m not coming across well via text. Does my tone seem weird to you?

Andy walks into my office then with a cup of coffee in hand. He’s whistling under his breath, much too happy to be in the office this early on a Monday morning.

“Who’re you texting?” he asks once he sees my phone in my hand.

“I’m not