The young redhead attending to me smiles, but it’s the sort of smile that says she wants to bed me. Little does she know that while I am a handsome man—six feet one, deep brown eyes, and a very charming smile—she can’t help herself. Yes, that myth is actually true. Humans find us irresistible.

She can’t be a day over twenty-nine, yet she dresses like a cliché of the crotchety old librarian, almost like a child might for Halloween. Her oval face with delicate features and cupid bow lips is not unattractive by any means, so my curiosity is instantly piqued. Why would a woman intentionally go out in public looking like this?

I dig through her top drawer and— “What is this?” I pull out the book. It appears to be one of those explicit romance novels—if one could dare to call them novels, which implies they are a form of literature. I chuckle.