That said, there is no ignoring Emmett, no matter how much I wish I were immune to him. The flowers are unbearably beautiful and over the top, and I change the water and trim the stems. When a rose starts to wilt, I press it between the pages of an old art history textbook, hoping it’ll dry nicely.

My grandmother, Margaret, and I don’t discuss Emmett’s gifts.

Margaret turns a vase, eyeing the flowers, but she doesn’t give me any advice about them. She doesn’t tell me I’m making a mistake by stringing him along, doesn’t say I better be careful not to allow his interest to lapse.

I’m not used to the freedom, and I almost bring him up to them countless times.

What would you do in my shoes? seems like a question that’s perpetually on my lips, but I don’t ask it.

I don’t really want to know what they would do.

The night after I return The Midnight Library to him, I happen to see his Range Rover slow to a stop at the curb outside my grandmother’s house. He’s come back just like he said he would this morning. I hurry over to my bedroom window and peel back the heavy drape so I have a perfect view of him lit by streetlights as he slides out of the back seat of his car, holding a second book.

My heart races like mad. I catalogue every detail as quickly as I can. His navy suit and crisp tie, his dark hair and knitted brows—he’s so handsome it hurts.

A large part of me wants to race down the stairs, run across the foyer, and leap into his arms, but I hold my ground and wait to hear Jacobs’ footsteps out in the hall.

He knocks on my door, and I go to answer it calmly.

“Mr. Emmett Mercier is here to see you,” he tells me, no hint of judgment in his voice. “He’s also sent me with this.”

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

I can’t help but smile. He’s starting to get cheeky.

“Should I send him off?” Jacobs asks.

The first day Emmett arrived, it was all too easy to turn him away. My answer to Jacobs was swift and stern, no room for second-guessing. Now, though, I waver.

“Ms. Lainey?” he asks again.

“Yes,” I say, weakly. “I think so.”

He responds with a simple nod then closes my door once again. I rush back to the window and wait for Emmett to walk back out to his car. It’s impossible not to question myself. What the hell am I doing? What kind of punishment does he deserve, if any?

It’s painful to watch him leave the house, his head tipped down, his shoulders crestfallen and dejected. When your heart beats for someone else, they can inflict incredible damage. It’s hard to extrapolate right from wrong when every step Emmett takes feels like a wounding blow.

I can’t get into Crime and Punishment no matter how hard I try. I carry the book with me around the house and to work the next day. I read it on my lunch break, but the words carry no meaning. I only daydream about Emmett and what time he plans to stop by later. I imagine a scenario where he grows so desperate he ignores Jacobs and stomps up the stairs to get to me, a caveman on a mission. It’s utterly ridiculous and silly, and yet, a thrill runs through me.