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slid an arm around her waist, pulling her in to his body. Her hands came up on instinct, settling on his chest, but she didn’t push him away.
    “Not tonight,” he agreed. “But that one kiss at the Pickerel? It was only the beginning.” His arm around her waist tightened.
    His words, so determined and confident, made her shiver. There was no denying his confidence was appealing, but this was her sex life they were talking about. She had never been the type of girl to just give in to a guy, so why was saying yes so tempting?
    I need to put some space between us. When he’s too close I can’t think.
    She pressed her hands against his chest and, after a long moment, Tristan released her. Kat took a few steps back, heart hammering. He didn’t come after her, but instead studied her room again, his eyes fixing on the bookshelf near her door. Kat watched him as he approached the books and studied the titles.
    “Jules Verne? Are you a fan of his?” He used one long index finger to tug a book out of her shelf. It was a well-worn paperback version of The Mysterious Island . One of her favorites.
    Her nervousness was momentarily forgotten. Talking about books was safe. A lot safer than talking about kisses and where they might lead. “My father read them to me when I was a kid. Verne, Burroughs. They’re like my comfort food. I read them over and over.”
    “Which do you like best?” He nodded at her shelf. She couldn’t help but smile as she walked over to him and took the book from his hands, flipping through the pages before meeting his gaze again.
    “This one is by far my favorite,” she said, indicating the book she now held. Even though she’d put space between them a moment ago, she felt safe now, standing here, talking about books. It helped her think clearly, past the hazy desire that filled her whenever he was too close.
    Tristan watched her, his captivating eyes darkening with emotions she couldn’t quite understand.
    “A woman who appreciates classic literature that isn’t Austen, Hardy, or one of the other stereotypes of the classic literature world. What a rare find you are. Do you know most women your age haven’t even read a book in years? It’s all magazines and online gossip sites. Bloody empty-headed creatures, the lot of them.” There was something about his words, the way he spoke…it was as though he were frustrated and annoyed.
    Kat wondered if Tristan had tried to talk to other women he’d slept with and found them lacking. The idea that she might be different from those women…hope stirred inside her.
    “Don’t get me wrong. I like Austen and Hardy, but an author’s works should move you. I don’t want to claim an author is a favorite just because they’re considered a classic. Verne’s diction, his imagination, his characters—they leap off the page and sweep me away.” As she spoke, she gazed fondly at the titles lining the bookshelf. So many wonderful memories, so many stories. All with the power to make her forget the pain she’d had in life, the way her mother had abandoned her, the way her father buried himself in his job. With books, she’d found the solace she needed. The stories didn’t change, the characters didn’t leave, and she didn’t have to leave them behind when she moved. Not like her real life.
    But I’m done hiding. Cambridge is home for three years. I can take a risk now.
    It was a lot easier to go out and try new things if people like Mark and Lacy were there with her as a safety net. Lacy had taken her clubbing the first night they’d met. Kat had hated the whole experience, but she’d been glad she’d had Lacy to go and try it out with. And Mark had talked her into learning how to punt on the River Cam even though she was convinced she’d never be able to stay on the boat while standing, let alone steer it. But she had, because he’d been there to help her.
    It was definitely time to try any- and everything because she had the chance