Her widowed Lycan

Dinner talk

*Michael*

Not that I'm not tempted to let loose with flattery that would have my dinner companion blushing with pleasure. It has been a good long while since I have been drawn to a woman.

I'm not certain I have ever met anyone as small of stature as she is who still manages to project such a large presence. The lycan Queen herself, perhaps. The moment I walked into the shop, Miss Tempest caught my attention without artifice or fawning or innuendo. She merely welcomed me with a warm smile and a sultry voice that caused me to recheck my surroundings to ensure I had entered a bookshop and not a brothel, then feeling bad about the notion.

My mind filled with images of that voice lowered into a rasp as she whispered wicked suggestions in my ear. I have no idea why I reacted to her as I did. Most certainly, she is a beautiful woman with her high cheekbones, delicate square jaw, and inviting brown eyes, but her attraction has more to do with her confidence and bearing.

I shouldn't have been surprised, at least not once I realized she is a Tempest. In spite of their humble origins, they were making their mark on society… Kai Tempest especially, with his tearing down of what had been left to rot and replacing it with buildings in which merchants and residents could take pride. It was one of the reasons I decided to lease a terrace house here. It is modern and clean, while the area itself provides a good many amenities.

"Why a bookshop?" I ask.

The smile she bestows upon me seems to encompass every aspect of her, to reveal her very soul. "The simple answer is that I love stories, but there is more to it than that. My siblings are all quite a bit older than I am. My mother sent them to a nearby ragged school. It cost her nothing as the schools are free, funded by the generosity of others. Lessons were only given in the morning, and they were only allowed to attend until they were eleven, so all that was over by the time I came around. But they learned to read, you see, and after that there was no stopping them."

The fire in her voice, her expression, holds me captivated. I can't recall the last time I have felt passionate about anything.

"They continued to educate themselves informally. They pooled their earnings together and paid a guinea a year to a lending library. They could only borrow one book at a time, and they took turns deciding who would choose the book to be borrowed, but it opened up worlds to them – and to me. My fondest memories are of each of them reading to me when I was quite small. It was magical. So, I wanted to open a bookshop in order to surround myself with the stories that my brothers and sister had loved enough to share with me. When I see the spines lined up on a shelf, it makes me happy. I'm happier still when someone takes a book home with them. Tales of adventure or romance or mystery bring undeniable and unending joy. Biographies, history, geography expand our knowledge of what surrounds us. Even if I don't necessarily agree with all the sentiments expressed, I find value in every word written, every word read. That's the reason I have a bookshop."

As though she hadn't just upended my world with her impassioned diatribe, she settles back and takes a long, slow sip of her beer. When she is done, she licks her lips before lifting her gaze back to mine, and I can't help but believe I have never been so enthralled by a person in my entire life, nor would I ever again be so. Her love of books is genuine, she is genuine.

"Did you attend the ragged schools?" I ask, knowing the name came about because so many of the children who attended wore rags. I hate the thought of her in worn and tattered clothes, possibly without shoes.

Although I'm aware people grow up in poverty, I have never before carried on a conversation with someone who has experienced it. I routinely make donations to charities, but I don't actively participate in good works. I suddenly feel ashamed, thinking that my lack of action might have caused her or others to have a harder life.

"Oh no. By the time I was old enough for school, my siblings were all working, and they pooled their money again, this time to send me to a private school and later to a finishing school. The other students' parents were merchants, bankers, tradesmen, or had other occupations with decent incomes, but I still wasn't fully embraced. Unfortunately, the circumstances of my birth carry a stigma." She doesn't elaborate on the circumstances, but she doesn't need to. It's common knowledge that the Tempests wear their illegitimacy like a badge of honor. "I found my years at school quite lonely, not that I ever told my siblings. I don't know why I confessed it to you or rambled on about it. I hope you will forgive my dip into self-pity."

"It was hardly self-pity, Miss Tempest," I reassure her. I don't want to imagine her sitting alone during meals, standing at the edge of a garden, not invited to play a game of tag.

Maybe whatever she went through motivated her to invite me to join her tonight. I'm starting to feel grateful she did. She is genuine, and I find it refreshing.