She nods. “Clearly. What else would you do? Also, you have such pretty teeth. I would imagine you have lots of”—she slows, takes her time, and nibbles on the corner of her lips—“floss.”

My breath hitches. “How is it that you’re able to say ‘dental floss’ and make it sound naughty?”

“I suppose it’s one of my many talents. So tell me, Non-Ninja, where did you learn to dance?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’ll probably laugh.”

“YouTube.”

She laughs sweetly. “Seriously?”

I nod. “I figured I needed a life skill beyond math, numbers, and computers. I learned how to dance online.”

She curls her hands over my shoulders. “You’re a nerd.” The words come out as if she just said I was a rock star or a pro quarterback. She says it with affection and, honestly, a whole lot of desire.

“Shocking, isn’t it, that I’m a nerd?”

“A hot nerd, to be precise,” she adds.

I bring her closer. “So are you.”

“You’re a very hot, witty nerd.”

I’m damn close to kissing her on this dance floor. But I’d rather get her away from everyone else. I lean in to whisper, “Same to you, you incredibly sexy hot nerd I want to kiss.”

She lets out a murmur, and when I pull back to meet her eyes again, I ask, “Have you seen the library here?”

“There’s a library?” Her pitch rises.

“Yes. Why don’t we check out the books and you can tell me more about your Monopoly strategy and the taxi apps you didn’t fund?”

“Why, yes, your grace. I’d love to.”

I laugh. “I’m not a duke.”

“Can we pretend you are?”

“Of course, Angel. I can be whoever you want.”

As long as it’s not me.

* * *

The door crawls shut.

Inch by inch.

A slow-mo door.

I have no patience for its theatrics. I kick it shut, eager for the next part of the evening to begin.

Her laughter sounds across the library and echoes off its dark wood shelves bursting with books. A leather couch takes center stage, flanked by a mahogany table.

“Are you in a rush to read something?” she asks coyly.

Her voice turns me on. It’s like bourbon and honey. A little throaty and husky, but with sweet undertones. Funny, how when you can’t see someone’s face—at least, not all of it—your other senses heighten. Your ears work harder, homing in on the voice, or you zoom in on the eyes. Hers are warm hazel with flecks of bronze and green.

“Why, yes, I was looking for a particular book.” I stroll to the bookshelf along one wall, running my fingers across the spines, from old hardcovers like Tess of the d’Urbervilles to modern thrillers from the likes of Clive Cussler to non-fiction reads on the habits of highly effective people. “I thought if you wanted to go to the library you’d want to read. Naturally.”

“Of course. Read me a story. A bedtime story.” She leans against the wall next to a writing desk with a green lamp on it, the kind that has one of those chains you pull down to turn it on. She goes with the moment, and this night seems like role-play with her. I half want to understand who she is. But in a way, I’d rather experience everything she seems to want to give. Her body. Her mouth. Her mind. Whoever she is here in the library is as real as whoever she is behind the mask. My mission is to make sure she gets everything she wants.