“Actually, yes,” she all but bites the words out in a sharp snap. Mostly because she doesn’t like the implication of that first comment at all: That he’s somehow decided in the last three seconds that she isn’t in the library for something of actual substance. She is not your harlequin romance seeker.

She doesn’t wait for an invitation, he hasn’t tried to send her away and that’s as good as the same to her, so she pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Why are they so focused on that anyway? I mean, I know you can sort of throw a dart and hit someone in a crowd that’s probably into the woo-woo new age crap, but it seems like it’s a little everywhere around here.” She plucks at her own shirt, with The Chariot symbol.