On cue, his shoulders petrify. He has shut down. My time is up.

“Come,” he says. “We have a million books, one eidetic memory and one eager scientist who wants to read them all. Put me to work.” He kisses my lips lightly.

I kiss him back, feeling a surging emptiness. I thought once I knew something about him—something real—the craving would be satisfied. But it’s not. It’s beastly. Because I know that the eidetic memory, like his success and his looks, is superficial. The inner Aiden is still hiding.

We leave the Purple Room, winding through the maze hand in hand, my brain exploding with information.

“Aiden, can I please ask one more question?”

He narrows his eyes. “One.”

“If you remember everything, why have a painting of me to begin with?”

He stops walking. “Because I want the fantasy.” He shrugs.

“And what is that fantasy?”

His jaw flexes. “By definition, it’s something that will not come true.”

My stomach twists sharply again, as the voice inside starts wailing. The fantasy. Not the real girl. And the real girl, I cannot give for more than twenty-nine days. Run, you fool. Run now and secure some strong medication for the plane ride.

I swallow. “You’re probably right.”

The deep V cracks between his eyebrows. That same flicker of helplessness that gleamed in his eyes when he looked at my paintings this morning, flashes now. It’s enough to lock my feet. Madly, I miss the man who is hiding even though I’ve never met him.

“Let’s live the fantasy a little longer, then,” I say.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Secrets

After dinner at Aiden’s home—it was that or renting out Andina’s private rooms—I stare at the towers of books leaning against the glass wall. To my horror, Aiden bought every book we touched. All 178 of them. How am I going to bring them all to England? How can I leave a single one behind? The sun dips behind Mount Hood. The stabbing in my stomach returns so I take his feather quill and a stack of books.

“What are you doing?” Aiden asks, still sitting at the enormous salvaged wood dinner table. He traces the lip of his wine glass with his thumb.

I perch next to him, setting my treasures on the table. “Signing my new books.”

He smiles and reaches for a lock of my hair. “More rituals?”

I nod. “I always sign my books so if they get lost, maybe I’ll be able to find them someday.” I dip the quill in the indigo inkwell and start with Pride and Prejudice. Aiden leans in to watch, twisting my hair. His warm breath tickles my cheek.

“Want to do it with me?” I ask, wanting his handwriting on these pages for when this all ends.

He must hear the desperation in my voice because he smiles. “Sure,” he says and picks up Byron’s Poems from the stack. “So how do we do this? You seem to have a system here.”

“Just sign your name on pages eight, twenty-four and eleven.”

He frowns once, then smiles. “Ah! For the date you came here.”

“Yes. And for the first date we have in common.” I dip the quill and sign The Brothers Karamazov. When I look up, something has changed in his eyes. A shadow over the turquoise depths. He controls it in seconds but it’s enough to trigger a strange itching on the soles of my feet. Like they want to run. I curl them under me.

“Sign another?” I ask, holding out the quill for him.

The shadow disappears. He picks up Fifty Shades of Grey and winks. “You can keep the quill, I’ll use my pen.”

We sign side by side, our thighs touching. He picks up his barrage of questions about me. Since Powell’s, he has bombarded me with everything from trivia to Rorschach analysis. As I answer his questions, I’m really wondering how I can wheedle information out of him. Despite my valiant efforts at Powell’s (“I’ve already read these books, Elisa, this is for you.”), on our drive back (“Benson needs silence in the car, Elisa.”) and during dinner (“It’s not advisable for one to talk while chewing, Elisa.”), Aiden remains more elusive than Element 115.

“Favorite vacation?” The interrogation continues as he signs A Tale of Two Cities.

“I plead the fifth.”

“You what?” he smiles.

“I plead the fifth. I’m not answering one more question about myself until you tell me something about you. And what’s more, I will quit my painting,” I threaten, using what little leverage I have.

“We can’t have that.” He signs The Secret Garden and sets his pen down. He takes a sip of wine. His eyes tighten but he smiles. “Fine, what would you like to know?”

I’m so stunned by the invitation that the quill drips on The Arabian Nights and the question fires unfiltered. “Why is there nothing personal about you anywhere?”

“Because by definition, such a thing would no longer be personal.”

“Where do you go when you want to get away?”

“I can’t really get away, as we’ve already established.” He taps his temple. His voice hardens so I move on to safer territory before he shuts down again.

“Who is your best friend?”

The smile remains unaffected. He picks up his pen and signs A Farewell to Arms.

“Marshall.”

I grin as I get the first real answer from him. Something as normal as a best friend. “Does Marshall live around here?” I have a strong desire for the answer to be yes. Not necessarily for me to meet him but because it means someone can break through Aiden’s walls and be by his side.

He takes another sip of wine and signs Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. “No.”

Oh! “Do you see him often?”

“Not like I wish.” He signs The Birth of Venus and stands. “Would you like your dessert? I’m sure you’ll find it more enriching than my friendships.” Without waiting for my answer, he strides to the kitchen.

“I doubt that,” I say, following him. He has moved so fast that he is already at the cabinets. I take a seat at the breakfast bar. I’m about to ask how long he has known Marshall when he turns with a smile.

“Not even Baci?” he says, holding a dome of silver chocolates, stacked neatly on a silver platter, framed by apple slices.

A gasp leaves my lips. How many Baci are there? One, two, three, four—

Aiden’s laugh drowns my arithmetic. He sets the platter in front of me.

“Thirty,” he says.

My stomach twists and burns, as though an ulcer erupted there. “What did you say?” I whisper.

He frowns. “Thirty? Er—I have more if you want? What are you thinking here? Sixty? One hundred?” For the first time since I’ve heard it, his voice is confused. The timbre is so endearing that I tear my eyes from the silver chocolate tower and glue them on him.

He is still frowning. “I can see if the company that makes them is for sale?” he offers, perfectly serious. It’s enough to make me laugh. Aiden Hale may have a genius brain but a girl’s obsession with him is clearly beyond his deductive powers.

I grip his shirt collar and kiss him.

“Let’s start with thirty,” I say even though “starting” has nothing to do with it.

He cups my face, his lips and tongue surpassing mine. His heartbeat is thumping under my hand. Suddenly, he pulls back and watches me. His eyes are utterly still. It’s not until I see them free of movement that I wonder whether for once he is not remembering.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “An errant thought. Would you like more wine?”

“Actually, some warm milk, if you don’t mind,” I mumble because my brain is fully occupied with deciphering the look on his face.

“Milk?” He smiles.

I nod. I have an ulterior motive for this. Milk helps me with nightmares and I am not having another one tonight.

“Okay, milk it is.”

He opens the fridge, pours milk out of the carton in two crystal tumblers and warms it in the microwave. I snap a picture with my camera.