21
BELLE
Idon’t think I’ve ever been more wrong about a man in my life.
When he said we were leaving the gala early, I assumed logistics. A quieter lounge or maybe a late dinner somewhere sleek, expensive, and intimidating.
I did not expect this.
The bookstore felt like a secret. Warm golden light spilled over rows of shelves, catching on embossed titles and soft matte covers. It was intimate without being small. Romantic without trying too hard. It felt like a place someone built because they love stories.
I turned slowly, taking it in.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said softly.
“I wanted to,” he replied.
And the simplicity of that answer nearly undid me.
The table was set between shelves labeled Enemies to Lovers and Second Chance Romance. There were candles flickering gently between us, their light catching the gold of my dress and making it glow.
I felt like I was glowing. And it wasn’t just the dress.
I sat, still a little stunned, and watched him. He looked at home in a tuxedo, but there was something softer about him here. He seemed to have less armor and more intention.
I shook my head, smiling helplessly.
“This is . . . perfect.”
“I'm glad you think so.”
The food was simple and thoughtful, nothing overly ornate. Just beautifully plated, warm, and intentional. We ate slowly, talking between bites. The conversation flowed between us as easily as it always did.
At one point, I realized I’d been talking for several minutes straight, animated, hands moving, describing the exact moment in a derby bout when everything clicks, and the world narrows to motion and momentum.
He was watching me like I was the headline act.
“You must miss Derby after this injury,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” I breathe. “I do.”
He nodded once, as if filing that away.
After dinner, I think the night is winding down. Then he stood and gestured toward the shelves. “Choose.”
I blinked at him.
“Choose what?”
“As many as you wish.”
The words didn’t compute at first.
“Books?” I asked stupidly.
“Yes.”
“As in . . . buy a book?”
