“Chloe.” He tries to shut the door again, but I ignore his denial.

I step forward, still fascinated by what I have found in Barrett’s home.

“Okay, where’s the sixty-year-old poet who collects obscure Renaissance era art and writes sonnets of his world travels stashed?” I turn to Barrett. “Is he tied up naked in a closet? You really should be kinder to your elders.”

“This is my personal space, so if you wouldn’t mind…” he sweeps his arm toward the open door.

“I don’t mind,” I ignore him and continue my perusal. “This is not what I expected.”

I can hear Barrett let out a puff of air from ten feet away, but I think his frustration has dimmed to curiosity.

“What did you expect?” he asks.

I decide to keep the vampire coffin slash mausoleum thoughts to myself. My hand reaches out to touch the books, my fingers caressing their spines.

“Not this,” I finally answer, my eyes hungrily consuming the titles. There’s a wide array of book genres. Classics, history, non-fiction, memoirs, biographies. “I thought I had you figured out. I thought it would be cold and impersonal like,” Barrett’s brows raise in anticipation of my response, “your office.” I was going to say like him, but now the idea of who I thought he was has muddied in my brain.

“Does that work?” I motion to the fireplace.

Barrett walks over and flips a switch. It immediately roars to life and I think I spontaneously orgasm. I don’t need a bedroom; I’ll just live in here.

A collection of photos and frames sit along the back wall below the windows. I see family photos, pictures with JoAnna and his dad. A diploma from Columbia for a degree in art history.

“Did you buy this on eBay?” I ask.

He takes the frame from my hand and sets it back into place. Wanting order and control, now that is something that still rings true for Barrett.

“No, that is my undergraduate degree.”

“Then you got an MBA at Wharton?” I ask, noting the other, larger framed diploma.

“Yes, when I realized my father was sick. It was his request and I fulfilled it.”

“So, what did you want to do with your degree?”

“I don’t know. I was young and rebelling against my parents.”

“Ivy league grad. With honors,” I note. “You’re such a rebel.”

“I don’t regret it. It was the best time of my life. Visiting Paris and Milan to travel and study. I still like to collect, as you can see.”

“Oh God, I’d love to visit Paris.”

Barrett motions toward the door again, this time I follow his lead.

“Are you going to be like the Beast and allow me access to any book in your library?”

“What beast?”