Chapter 5 Miss Turner Returns
Paige
For several seconds, I sat perfectly still with the closed book clutched in both hands.
My apartment looked exactly as it had before I opened Cinderella. Same half-burned candle on the dresser. Same stack of journals threatening to slide off my desk. Same blanket twisted around my legs.
Nothing had changed.
Except me.
My nightshirt was bunched around my waist, my panties damp, and every muscle in my body still carried the aftershocks of something that should have been impossible. I could remember the prince’s mouth at my throat, the pressure of his hands, the shocking reality of being inside a body that had never left my bedroom.
“What the actual fuck?”
My voice sounded too loud in the silence.
I looked down at the midnight-blue cover.
A book.
It was just a book.
Except ordinary books did not swallow people whole and return them flushed, trembling, and questioning the stability of reality.
I opened it again, cautiously this time.
The final page waited exactly where I had left it. The silver lettering at the bottom had stopped shimmering, but the words remained.
At midnight, all enchantments become choices.
I traced the sentence without touching the ink.
That should have unsettled me more than it did. Instead, I kept thinking about the moment the bells rang. The prince had stopped the instant I told him I needed to leave. No bargaining. No irritation. He had simply let me go.
The story had listened.
That thought sat strangely beside everything else.
I closed the book again.
Then immediately considered reopening it.
“No.”
I set it on the nightstand.
Three minutes later I moved it to the dresser because apparently six additional feet of distance constituted self-control.
Sleep was useless.
Every time I drifted off, some piece of the night returned with embarrassing clarity: moonlight on black water, his thumb at my waist, the garden, the carriage. More than once I woke warm and breathless, only to glare accusingly at Cinderella across the room.
By morning, I had reached two conclusions.
The first was that I had absolutely not imagined any of it.
The second was that I was going back to the bookstore.
This did not stop me from spending most of breakfast pretending otherwise.
Normal women did not return to mysterious shops to ask dangerously attractive booksellers why their merchandise had transported them into sexually adventurous fairy tales. Normal women especially did not spend twenty minutes choosing a cardigan that said I am composed and definitely did not get debauched beside a magical carriage last night.
Unfortunately, none of my cardigans were that specific.
By noon, I was standing outside The Forbidden Shelf with Cinderella pressed to my chest like evidence in a criminal investigation.
The bell chimed when I entered.
Andy looked up from behind the counter.
Today he wore a deep burgundy vest over a white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His amber eyes brightened the moment he saw me, and the smile that followed made it immediately clear he had expected my return.
“Miss Turner.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You look pleased with yourself.”
“Do I?”
“Very.”
“How unfortunate. I was aiming for professionally welcoming.”
“You missed.”
“Tragic.”
His gaze dropped to the book in my arms and returned to my face.
“So,” he said, drawing the word out just enough to annoy me. “Cinderella.”
Heat crawled into my cheeks.
I set the book on the counter with more force than necessary. “You could have warned me.”
“I did.”
“You told me it wasn’t the version I knew as a child. That is not remotely the same as telling me I was going to fall through the pages.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“Fall?”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then his mouth twitched.
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
“An occupational hazard. Booksellers are notoriously untrustworthy.”
I almost laughed, which irritated me more.
Andy rested one hand on Cinderella’s cover. “Did you dislike it?”
The question was teasing, but something quieter sat underneath.
I opened my mouth to say yes.
Nothing came out.
His smile deepened.
“I see.”
“You see nothing.”
“Of course.”
“It was…” I searched for a word that did not require confessing anything humiliating. “Immersive.”
“Immersive.”
“Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face did.”
That earned me a genuine laugh.
The sound caught me off guard. So did the way it softened him.
Then he leaned closer.
“Did you enjoy the garden?”
My amusement vanished.
I stared at him.
“The garden?”
“Mm.”
“How do you know I went into a garden?”
For the smallest instant, something sharpened behind his eyes.
Then he shrugged.
“Cinderella has many gardens.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”
The bookstore seemed to settle around us. Somewhere in the shelves, something gave a faint rustle despite the lack of any breeze.
I lowered my voice. “What exactly are those books?”
“Stories.”
“Andy.”
“Experiences, if you prefer.”
“That is even less helpful.”
His fingers tapped once against the blue cover. “They respond to the reader. They give shape to things that are easier to desire when they belong to someone else.”
That hit closer than I wanted.
He must have seen it, because the teasing disappeared.
“You were safe, Paige.”
I thought of the bells. The instant release of the prince’s hands.
“At midnight, all enchantments become choices.”
His expression changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You saw that.”
“You know it?”
“I know every rule in every book I lend.”
There were at least twelve questions buried inside that sentence.
Before I could choose one, he turned toward the shelves behind him and pulled down an emerald-green volume.
Gold lettering gleamed across the cover.
Rapunzel.
I looked from it to him. “Another princess?”
“Another dangerous delight.”
“I’m beginning to suspect you have a theme.”
“I have several. You’re still in the introductory section.”
That should not have made my stomach flutter.
He slid the book toward me.
I stared at it.
Yesterday I had taken Cinderella because I didn’t believe him.
Today I knew exactly what accepting Rapunzel meant.
My hand hovered above the cover.
Andy waited.
He didn’t coax me or push the book closer. For all his smug amusement, he left the decision sitting entirely between us.
I picked it up.
The leather was warm beneath my palm.
His smile was slow and entirely too satisfied.
“Thought so.”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I tucked the book against my chest and headed for the door before I could reconsider.
“Miss Turner.”
I looked back.
Andy stood behind the counter with one hand resting on Cinderella, his amber eyes bright beneath the lamplight.
“One thing before you begin.”
“What?”
His smile turned wicked.
“Don’t assume the tower is the prison.”
The bell chimed behind me as I stepped into the alley.
Rapunzel suddenly felt much heavier in my arms. I was stepping into the story.
