Free Wickedly Charming by Kristine Grayson Page A

thing that makes books so wonderful.”
    â€œThere would be other books,” she said.
    He shook his head. “You miss the point. The point isn’t that there would be other books. Or even that there would be more appropriate books. The point is that books themselves are an adventure. They challenge us, change our perceptions, make us more than we are.”
    There it was: the first person plural. Right after he had sworn to avoid it. He was revealing himself, but he didn’t know how to do this any other way.
    â€œWe need to know that all kinds of books exist. Books that make us fall in love. Books that scare us. Books that are so full of lies they make us angry.”
    â€œWhy would you want that?” she asked.
    â€œWhy would you not want it?” he asked.
    â€œBecause they’re lying about us,” she said.
    â€œDo they ever call you by name?” he asked. Then he frowned. “What is your name, by the way? I only know the Disney name, and that can’t be right—”
    â€œIt’s Mellie,” she said.
    â€œSo Disney had it right?” he asked, trying to remember. Was it Millificent? Millicent? Mill—
    â€œMelvina,” she said. “My name is Melvina. Which is actually a good name. It means—”
    â€œThe female form of Melvin,” he said. “It means ‘chieftain.’”
    Her mouth was open just slightly. “How did you know that?”
    He smiled, happy to give her the answer. “Books,” he said. “I have an eidetic memory. So I remember everything I read.”
    â€œGood heavens,” she said. “Doesn’t that clutter up your brain?”
    Which was a fairy tale character’s answer if he had ever heard one. But he didn’t say that to her. He didn’t want to insult her.
    Instead, he said gently, “I don’t have much more to clutter it up with. My whole life is about—”
    â€œWaiting for your father to die, I know,” she said, not without a bit of compassion.
    He didn’t want to talk about that. He was sorry he had said it earlier. Something about this woman made him more honest than he usually was.
    Mellie. It suited her. Just like Melvina did. Only Melvina was one of those formal names, the name that a person used when they needed the dignity of their full name. Like David. The Biblical King wasn’t King Dave. He was King David. But Charming would have wagered that all his friends called him Dave.
    â€œWhat I was asking,” Charming said, keeping his voice gentle, “before I sidetracked us, was do any of these fairy tales mention you by name?”
    She looked away from him, as if the door behind them—the door that got slammed a few moments ago—had suddenly become very interesting.
    â€œNo,” she said sullenly, rather like one of his daughters when he caught them in a lie.
    â€œDo these fairy tales describe you accurately?” he asked.
    Her gaze snapped back to his. “That’s the whole point. Of course they don’t. Why else would I be—”
    â€œNo, no,” he said. “I mean, do they describe you accurately physically? From that lovely dark hair of yours to those emerald eyes.”
    He took her hand. It was soft. Her skin was as smooth as he remembered it from a few hours ago, and he didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need reminding about how attractive he found her.
    He wanted to kiss her, and wouldn’t that startle her? Just the urge startled him.
    He leaned toward her, traced the side of her face with his thumb. She watched him, her mouth open just slightly.
    â€œDo those fairy tales you hate describe the way that your cheeks flush just slightly when you’re feeling passionate about something?” he asked quietly. “Or the rich, almost musical timbre of your voice?”
    That flush he had mentioned had grown in her cheeks. He had unnerved her.
    He was beginning to unnerve