My Anonymous Lover Was My Worst Enemy

"Meeting adjourned," Miles announced, his voice cutting through Eleanor's hesitation.

The board members gathered their folders, casting nervous glances my way before filing out the door. The heavy oak clicked shut.

I didn't wait for him to sit down. "How long?"

Miles unbuttoned his suit jacket. "How long what, Iris?"

"Do not play dumb." I marched to his side of the table. "You know exactly what I am asking. How long have you known I was the woman writing in that book?"

Miles reached into his breast pocket. The gold nib caught the overhead fluorescent light.

"Six weeks," he said.

"Six weeks." I let out a harsh laugh. "You sat across from me in budget meetings for a month and a half, knowing I was the one pouring my private thoughts into the margins of 'The Hours We Hide'?"

"No." He picked up the pen, turning it between his fingers. "For the first six weeks, I only knew I was writing back to an adult patron. Someone who challenged the text. Someone who argued with my notes."

"And when did I become Iris Bennett?"

"Three days ago." He set the pen down. "You submitted the revised proposal for the literature group. The sharp cross of your t. It matched the handwriting in the library copy perfectly."

I stared at the pen. The same blue ink that had debated female autonomy, desire, and control with me late into the night.

"You brought the book to the board meeting," I said. "Why? To hold it over my head?"

"I brought it to force my own hand."

"Explain that."

"I needed to confess before I officially vetoed the reading group."

"That makes zero sense, Miles."

"It makes perfect sense. I couldn't reject your proposal and pretend I didn't know you were the woman writing those notes. I had to face you."

"So you played God instead," I shot back, stepping closer. "You made the decision to cancel my program, silenced my work, and then decided you were allowed to be honest. You took away my choice."

"I made a financial decision for this institution."

"You made a cowardly decision for yourself." I pointed at the dark blue pen. "You want to talk about control? You don't want me to have a voice, Miles. You just want to read my secrets."

"That is entirely unfair, Iris."

"It is the truth."

The overhead lights flickered, hummed violently, and died.

Darkness swallowed the boardroom. Down the hall, the automated checkout system let out a mechanical whine as the backup generator kicked in.

"The return belt," I said.

"What?" Miles asked, his voice close in the pitch black.

"The reboot sequence. The automated bin resets and clears the drop box." Panic flared in my chest. "The book. Where did you put the book?"

"On the scanning cart by the front desk."

"If the system reboots, the cart mechanism feeds into the night return conveyor." I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. "Miles, page 287 is in that book."

"The staff won't read it."

"Page 287 details exactly how I want to be backed against a wall," I snapped. "If the morning librarians log that book, they will see my handwriting. They will know it is us."

A click sounded. Miles held his phone, the flashlight illuminating the sharp line of his jaw.

"Let's go," he said.

The library felt like a tomb, smelling of old paper and rain.

"Do you even know how the automated system works?" I asked as we hurried past the reference section.

"I approve the maintenance budget for it," Miles said, his flashlight beam bouncing ahead of us.

"That means no. The conveyor sorts by barcode. If the book was on the scanning cart when the power cycled, the rollers automatically pull the top layer of books into the sorting bins to prevent a jam."

We reached the circulation desk just as the mechanical belt ground to a halt.

The cart was empty.

"It fed into the sorting room," I said, rushing toward the staff-only doors.

Miles pushed the heavy door open. The flashlight beam swept across the cramped aisles.

"Check the overflow bin on the top rack," I instructed, pointing to the highest shelf in the corner.

Miles stepped onto the rolling ladder. He reached up, shifting a stack of hardcovers.

"Do you see it?" I asked.

"There are fifty books in this bin," he said, pulling a few out. "None of them are 'The Hours We Hide'."

"Look deeper. It has a torn spine."

The metal bin shifted. A loud screech echoed in the small room as the heavy plastic container slid off the rail, plummeting straight toward me.

Miles dropped his phone. His sudden movement boxed me in.

The phone clattered to the floor. The beam bounced off the wall, casting long, erratic shadows across the metal shelves.

I was trapped.

Miles stood on the bottom step of the ladder. The heavy bin balanced precariously above his forearm.

His chest hovered inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating through his suit jacket.

Trapped in a narrow space. Caged by arms. No way out.

He didn't touch me. His body remained still, maintaining that agonizing sliver of space between us.

"You wrote that the anticipation is worse than the act," Miles whispered. His voice was a low rasp in the dark.

I swallowed hard. "Miles."

"You wrote that boundaries are only interesting when someone asks permission to cross them." He tilted his head, his gaze locked on my mouth. "You said the person in control is the one who decides when the talking stops."

He remembered every single detail.

"Stop quoting my fantasies while you ruin my real life," I demanded, pressing my hands flat against the wooden shelf behind me.

"I am not trying to ruin your life," Miles said.

"Then why cancel the group? Why threaten my job over a book club?"

"Because your real life involves a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar matching grant," he replied, his tone shifting back to the board president.

Yet, he didn't step away. He didn't drop his arms.

"What does a grant have to do with the women's literature group?"

"A donor threatened to pull the funding if the initiative went forward."

"Who?" I asked.

"I cannot disclose that."

"A quarter of a million dollars." I let out a harsh breath. "Someone hates the idea of women reading about their own desires so much that they would hold the library hostage?"

"Yes."

"And you caved."

"I made a strategic retreat to save the operating budget for the next five years."

"You are hiding behind anonymous donors just like you hid behind blue ink." I glared up at him. "Are you protecting the library, Miles? Or are you protecting me?"

He didn't step back. The flashlight on the floor illuminated the intense, unyielding focus in his eyes.

"Neither is what I want to do right now," he said.

He lowered his head. The scent of rain and cedar wrapped around me. His mouth hovered exactly one inch from mine.

"I know how you want to be kissed, but this time, you have to tell me yourself."