Tommy sat frozen in the rocking chair and stared unseeing at the open book in his hand. Normally, he could read at any time, any place. Dostoevsky in a park surrounded by noisy schoolchildren? Not an inconvenience. Wilde on a bouncing tram or Wells by the stub of candlelight? Easily achieved. Apparently, that talent fled when it came to posing for a very demanding—dare he say temperamental?—photographer.
“Still not right. Move six inches to your left.”
He obliged, all the while biting the inside of his cheek to prevent a smile. If he did, Imogen would moan about him ruining her vision.
“There! Now let’s work on your expression. Give me ferocity but also whimsy. And toss in a hint of suspicious serenity.”
He snorted. “Do you hear yourself?”
She peered around her camera with a quizzical smile. “Yes, why?”
She was as adorable as she was bizarre. He didn’t have the heart to tell her how strange he found her creative process. It took courage to share her craft with him, and he would remain supportive. “Nothing. I’ll do my best.”
She blew him a kiss, and Tommy was infused with a sense of contentment. It had been three days since she gifted him the faded handkerchief. The cheap bit of cloth touched him more deeply than he could have thought possible. Until that night, he hadn’t realized how badly he needed to know that his past actions hadn’t ruined everything between them. The handkerchief hadn’t left his pocket since.
Each day with Imogen was nothing short of exhilarating. When a second snowstorm swept through the area, pinning them in place again, he wondered whether he would begin to feel trapped. Miraculously, his worry and restlessness were gone. Hell, he didn’t even care that his purple hair was an abomination. It made Imogen giggle, and that was enough. The desire to run was replaced with a willingness to simply…be.
The days were filled with endless conversation. It was like a dam burst inside Tommy, and all the stories he’d bottled up came pouring forth. Imogen listened like every word out of his mouth was endlessly fascinating, like he was as talented a storyteller as the authors he read every day. Imogen responded in kind, and soon their words tumbled over each other. They rehashed old memories, adding in missing details that made the other snort with laughter. Amusing events from recent years were woven in, which lead to animated debates over Seattle’s tastiest desserts or the best name for a racehorse.
Then there were the nights. Their shared passion was revelatory. He’d fulfilled his wish to Imogen a dozen times over. She was still a virgin, but he’d taught her how to suck his cock, how to enjoy a man licking her sweet pussy. For hours upon hours, it was nothing but trembling limbs, gasping breaths, and shuddering climaxes.
He hadn’t been this happy in a long time. Not only did he have his best friend back, but there was something growing between them. It was undeniable. Exciting. Natural. Every evening was spent with a very nude, very endearing Imogen nestled against his chest while he read aloud. He couldn’t imagine the same scenario with anyone else.
“Perfect,” Imogen announced. “Whatever you were thinking about really hit the mark.”
There was no way he could tell her what he’d actually been thinking. He couldn’t risk disrupting the magic between them. So he said with an exaggerated leer, “Come closer and I’ll show you.”
The flush that rose to Imogen’s cheeks told him she bought his prevarication. “Oh, you.”
He set the book down. “What’s next?”
“Hmm.” She tapped her chin and paced across the floor. She would pause occasionally to pick up an object—a dish holding used tea leaves, a half-finished paper snowflake, a discarded pillowcase—and squint at it like it could tell her whether it was the correct prop or not. He surreptitiously followed behind her, adjusting objects as she laid them down. She whirled to glare at him. “I see you.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”
She rolled her eyes. “For a thief, your capacity for lying is sorely lacking. Speaking of thieves…” She dashed to the cabinet and removed the stashed oilcloth. “This is what we need.”
“Wonderful.”
She plunked his hat on his head and directed him to a frost-lined window. “Crouch down and peer through. Make sure the oilcloth is clearly visible. Like so.” She adjusted his grip around the oilcloth until she was satisfied.
As she moved away to reposition her camera, Tommy dutifully gazed through the window. The storm had passed; only a few flakes still fell upon the dense mantle of snow outside the door.
“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” she said. “You told me you’re going to sell this edition of Moby Dick for as much money as possible. What do you need the money for? Are you in trouble?”
“Nothing like that.” He paused and realized he did want to tell her. They’d talked about everything else under the sun, why not the dream that lit up his soul? It might be a relief to share it with someone else, and there was no better person to do that with than Imogen. “Though I do have aspirations beyond my work at the bookshop. I love being surrounded by books all day, but I don’t like that we only serve a small portion of the populace. Too many people cannot afford to purchase books, so something needs to change.”
“Isn’t that the role of libraries? The new Central Library has become quite popular.”
“Yes, it is. Carnegie’s generous grants for public libraries have been transformative, but I don’t think his model is enough.”
“Why not?”
“Large branches serve the masses, but too many communities are overlooked. I grew up surrounded by hardworking immigrants who rarely had time to rest, let alone travel downtown to visit the library. Don’t they also deserve the comfort of a good book? And what if they could read stories in their own language in addition to English?”
“The library has some translations in French and Spanish, if I’m not mistaken.”
“A good starting point, but what about my Norwegian family members? Our Italian, Japanese, Chinese neighbors? The poor communities—so often our immigrant communities—are always served last. I want to change that.”
“But how?”
“By opening a series of reading rooms and book deposits across the city. The more underserved the area, the better.”
“That’s a splendid idea.” Her voice rose with excitement. “You should request a meeting with Mr. Jennings. He’s the head librarian at the Central Library and a friend of my father’s. I’ve heard him speak of his expansion plans, so perhaps you’d work well together.”
His palms itched at the thought of working with anyone else. He worked alone. Always had, always would. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”
“Tommy, you are capable of many things, but there’s a lot of training and money needed to do that on your own.”
“Precisely. That’s why I took the University of Washington’s summer library training course.”
There was a shuffle behind him, and then her hand was on his elbow. “And the funds?”
He met her gaze unflinchingly. “I think you know.”
She let out a breath. “How can you reconcile being both a bookseller and a book thief?”
He shrugged. “Stealing books is a means to an end. I’d steal diamonds, but I know nothing about them, nor anyone who would buy them. I do, however, know book collectors. My job has introduced me to dozens over the years, many of whom don’t appreciate what they have. There was a particular buyer, Mr. Hughes, who came from London. He ordered a slew of beautiful, rare books to take back to Europe. Each time a book would arrive, he’d give it a cursory check and then cram it in his satchel to take home. It drove me mad. His one redeeming quality was that he always paid in advance.
“One day, he didn’t come to collect. I went looking for him and discovered he had died. To my surprise, the book remained unclaimed a month later. I decided to resell it under the guise that Mr. Hughes needed money to return to England. Not only did offers pour in, but not a single person questioned my ruse. That’s when I realized the opportunity lying beneath my nose. With Mr. Hughes back in England, so to speak, I could continue to sell stolen books in his name. Who would bother to interact with a man an ocean away when his intermediary was right there in Seattle? My ruse has worked time and again, and I’ve saved every penny. The sale of this book—” he jerked his chin toward the oilcloth, “—means I can finally begin. Mr. Hughes might be dead, but he’s very much alive for the purposes of my business.”
Imogen’s nails drove into his forearm. “What if you’re caught? You could be jailed. You could lose everything. And I—” She swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I could bear it.”
“That won’t happen,” he said fiercely. “I’m very, very good.”
“I have no doubt you are the most meticulous thief to ever exist, but I will always worry over you.”
He cupped her cheek and stroked her downy skin with his thumb. “No need to waste your worries on me.”
Her back stiffened and she vigorously shook her head. “Why would you say such—”
“What about your photograph?” he interrupted pointedly.
She scowled and looked away. “I took it while you were talking.”
“I see.” He tugged her into his arms, determined to soothe the rigidness from her limbs in the only way he knew how. Words had done enough damage for one day. He stroked her back and waited patiently. Soon, her body grew pliant against his. They stood still, and he savored the quietude, the gentle rise and fall of her breath on his neck. They didn’t have many moments like this left. She stirred a moment later, and he reluctantly let her go.
“Thank you for telling me your secret. I know it was difficult.” She drew a breath. “And since you were so forthcoming with me, I’d like to share a secret as well.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“It’s hard to admit, but my first photography show didn’t go well. The general consensus was that my portraits were…nice. Imagine my horror.”
“Nice is bad?”
“Nice is a bland word people use when they want to be polite. They weren’t wrong. I was trying too hard to fit in with my contemporaries. The photographs were technically sound, but they were a poor mimicry of what has already been done. What’s worse, they lacked heart.”
“Ah. And this leads to your secret…how?”
“The lackluster reception meant I had to experiment. Take some risks. I…I sold a self-portrait to a shop near Pioneer Square.”
He spread his hands out. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
She leaned in and whispered, “By society’s standards, it’s…indecent.”
A dozen images flashed through his mind, each more lascivious than the last. He was familiar with the kind of art that could be found in some of those shops. Art that wouldn’t be sold in the galleries of Capitol Hill. He had bought several interesting prints over the years for his personal collection. He had to swallow twice before he could speak. “Specifics, please.”
“I am nude.” Her chin lifted. “Are you shocked?”
“A little,” he admitted. “I had no idea you were interested in pushing boundaries in such a way.”
“Some of the finest art features the nude form. From sculpture to painting, the female form is adored, celebrated. Why shouldn’t photography do the same?”
“It’s a sound argument. How was the photograph received?”
“That leads me to the second part of the secret. I don’t know.” She twisted her hands together. “I fled town after I sold it. The shop proprietor said it wasn’t the usual stuff he showed and he had low expectations. I couldn’t bear to wait around and find out if he was right. That I’d failed. Again.”
His heart squeezed at the despair in her voice. His poor Genie wasn’t herself. She’d been rejected so much recently she’d lost all confidence in herself. “There’s no sense in jumping to conclusions without all the facts. I’ve been to several of the shops you mention, so you could describe your photograph to me. Perhaps I’ve already seen it.”
“I could,” she said slowly. “Or I could show you.”
His mouth went dry. “You have a copy?”
“Yes. And I’ll show you, for a small price.”
“Paid. Done.”
“Don’t you want to know what the price is before you agree?”
“Don’t care.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across her cheeks, giving him the first inkling that he had made a very bad decision. “There’s one more photograph I want to take. Remove your clothes.”