I find my usual place in the bookstore and sit down, folding my legs in underneath me. I picture the veins closing up slightly under the weight of my upper half, cutting off blood circulation in my legs until I decide to stand up again, letting the blood flow freely throughout my my whole body, just as it pleases. Not that it would make much of a difference, I think to myself. My legs are so pale, they already look like a vampire has drained the blood right out of them.

I set my messenger bag down on the floor next to me, open the book I brought, and begin reading. Usually, normal American citizens use their local bookstores to actually purchase books of their choosing, while people who enjoy reading go to the library for peace, quiet, and comfortable seating. But as for me, I prefer bookstores due to two reasons:
1. People may use whatever level voice they wish, not having to worry about the grumpy, old librarian stroll on by telling you to please keep your voice down, or she'll have to kick you out (which she really can't, because anyone who enters a library is probably ten times stronger than she is and will probably not fly out the door if she tries to kick you out).
2. All the books are new. Not that I'm a germ freak or anything, but I don't really like the thought of one else's hands touching my most prized possessions (even if they don't really belong to me). I mean, who the hell knows where you're filthy hands have been?

I've no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn't have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am-

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire." Startled, I gasp in surprise and look up to find a tall, handsome boy standing above me, reading off my shoulder.

"Let me guess," he started in a low, raspy (and extremely sexy), voice. "Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë?" he guessed.

"You saw the cover." I accused, knowing that there was no way a guy like him could possibly know what book I was reading by reading one line from a page in the middle-end of the book from over my shoulder.

"Oh, but of course not. I'm a sucker for classics. I have everything memorised from Shakespeare, to the Brontë sisters, to Jane Austen."

"Little Women." I challenged, determined to leave this game a winner.

"'I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship'"

"Jane Eyre?"

"'I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.'"
Okay, mystery guy. Here's a curve ball.

"Hamlet." I say with a smirk, knowing that Shakespeare is hard to memorise for non-thespians.

"'Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.'" he quotes, throwing my smirk right back at me. And damn, did it sting.

Slightly frowning, I clear my throat and look away, not sure what to say next. I was just proved wrong, in literature, by a complete stranger. How is a girl like me supposed to respond to something like that? If I could only find some witty comment that would wipe that smirk off his face... But instead, I decide to play it cool and be friendly, since I'm clearly lacking in the "friend" area of my life.
"Wow, I'm impressed. It's hard to find people my age who actually appreciate fine literature. Or people in my era, for that matter." I say.
The guy lets out a low chuckle, sending chills down my spine and right to my-

"It's hard to find a very attractive, intelligent looking girl who hangs out in bookstores and reads books from the 1800's." he says, and, oh- there's that smirk again.
His green eyes narrowed in my direction, his stare becoming very intense. If I wasn't so focused on it, it might have made me feel a bit uncomfortable. Realising that he just called me attractive and intelligent looking, I blush and somewhat stumble over my next words.

"Um, would you, *ehem* like to sit?" I offer, hoping I don't sound too desperate.

"Sure." He replies, sitting across from me in the isle, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
We sit there awkwardly for a second, not sure on what to say next. How do you start a conversation with a really hot stranger who just called you attractive?
Luckily enough, the stranger goes first.

"My names Harry. It's a pleasure to meet you." He says with a half smile, extending his right hand out toward me. I shake it lightly and give him my name.

"Ember," I say, "nice to meet you too."

Notes

Sorry it's a bit short, but I'm not sure if I'm going to continue this story unless I get some readers and comments suggesting that I keep writing.
Please let me know what you think! It's my first story and I'd LOVE some feedback!

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