I found a large Willa Cather section. I grinned as I plucked My ántonia off the shelf. Ha! I felt like a detective.
There was the Virgil epigraph, which Matt had circled. I flipped to the end of the book. He had highlighted the whole last paragraph and then, in pen, underlined the last sentence: "Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past."
In the margin he'd scribbled "epi?"
I frowned.
Epi? Epigraph? This was, I knew, the epigraph to The Silver Cord by M. Pierce.
My frown shifted to a smirk. Was Matt a secret M. Pierce fan? That might explain why he kept hassling me for liking the author—because he was a fan boy and too much of a literary snob to admit it.
I scanned the fiction, my eyes zipping toward the P section. Walker Percy, Sylvia Plath, Thomas Pynchon, Puzo, Proust—huh, no Pierce...
"Hannah."
I jumped.
Matt stood in the doorway. His face was pale and his hair was crazy. A pair of black lounge pants clung to his hips.
"Matt, hey." I gave a shaky laugh. "You scared me..."
Fuck, his eyes were so deadly serious. Girl in a tiger cage. Girl about to be devoured. He looked between the shelf and the book in my hands.
"Your, um—" I cleared my throat. "Your hair is awesome right now."
Matt eyed me a moment longer, then reached to touch his hair. A few pieces stuck straight up. The rest was matted.
"This is the new style," he murmured.
A cautious smile spread on his lips. I laughed too readily. Geez, what was that all about? Mr. Frostypants in the morning? Or did he think I was snooping?
I glanced guiltily at the book in my hand. Okay, maybe I was snooping.
Matt slipped the book from my hand and returned it to the shelf.
"Mm, Willa Cather. A brilliant author. And this is her best, hands down. It's the one she was meant to write."
Matt smiled as he studied the shelf. I stared at his handsome profile. Now he was warm and enthusiastic; a moment ago he'd looked ill and nearly violent. I had to admit, his changeable moods excited me, but they worried me too.
"Do you know what I mean?" he said. "An author writes book after book, throwing darts at the board. Many stick, but one hits the bull's-eye. The one they were meant to write. Nice shirt." He squeezed my ass as his eyes travelled the shelves. "I read to find the bull's-eye. The Sound and the Fury, Never Cry Wolf, Franny and Zooey, Four Quartets—"
"The Silver Cord," I blurted.
Matt snorted.
"Oh please, not again with the M. Pierce fan girl routine."
"Okay, if I'm such a fan girl, then why do you—" My voice quavered. I was staring at Matt's copy of My ántonia and debating the wisdom of calling him out. Calling him out for what, though? He obviously despised M. Pierce. My evidence to the contrary was convoluted and conspiratorial, and it made me look Matt-obsessed more than anything, like I memorized and picked over his every word.
"Why do I what?" Matt demanded.
"Why do you... know... about the Granite Wing rumor?" I cringed. Lame.
Matt's eyes were hard as emeralds.
"As you can see," he said, gesturing to his books, "I'm decently well read. I like to stay abreast of literary trends. That means I may read shitty online zines like Fit to Print once in a blue moon, and I can't really be blamed for their chronic hard-on for that second-rate author. I happened to glimpse their article with all the alleged Pierce facts, including that Granite Wing gossip. Fit to Print indeed." Matt scoffed. "In a tabloid."
I flattened my hands against Matt's chest. His expression softened.
"It's like you have an ax to grind with that poor author," I said. I nuzzled my face into his skin and he folded his arms around me.
"I doubt she's poor. And I don't have an ax to grind, alright? I just don't think she's any Cather. Not even close."
"Well I do." I kissed his nipple and he twitched. God, I loved that. "And I studied literature, so that's that Mr. Businessman."