Page 88 of High Reward

“How did you even arrange this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “We’re supposed to be in lockdown.”

“Turns out, if you pay enough money, people will adjust their business hours for you.” He shrugs, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And Samuel Carter brought a team in and swept the store and surrounding area an hour ago. We have a secure perimeter. The owners are friends of Lili’s. She turned me on to the place and told me how to get in touch with them.”

I look around the store with wide eyes. It’s beautiful. Cozy wooden shelves reach to the ceiling, with a rolling ladder to reach the highest ones. Comfortable armchairs with lamps and a place to set a cup of coffee are tucked into various corners throughout the store. The air smells of that scent that only book paper can have. That distinctive bookstore scent that can’t be replicated no matter how many cheesy candle companies claim to have done so.

“Victor,” I say, unable to find other words.

“Go explore,” he urges. “The place is ours until midnight.”

I take a tentative step forward, then another, drawn by the endless rows of books. My fingers brush along the spines, loving the differences in their textures. Some cloth, some leather, some glossy paperbacks. Each one a different world to escape to. Victor has given me an entire building full of safe places to hide.

Behind me, I hear him settle into an armchair, seemingly content to watch me wander. No rush, no commands. Just the gift of safety and time in a space that puts us a world away from bombs and snipers and stalkers, despite those things being just beyond the glass door.

“Thank you,” I whisper, though I’m not sure he can hear me from where he sits.

Soft music registers as I venture further into the store. It sounds classical, but after a minute, I recognize it as a pop instrumental playlist I sometimes listen to when I’m writing. I round a corner and stop short. A small table nestled between two tall shelves holds a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, two crystal flutes beside it. A single rose in a slender vase completes the setup. It’s not grand or flashy, just thoughtfully elegant. Like Victor. The champagne isn’t even expensive.

“When did you have time to arrange all this?” I ask, turning to find him watching me from a few feet away.

“This afternoon, when I got back from the warehouse.” He moves closer, takes the champagne from the ice. “May I?”

I nod, watching as he unwraps the foil with ease. The cork comes free with a soft pop rather than the explosive sound I expect. He pours two glasses, the liquid pale gold in the gentle lighting.

“To quiet moments,” he says, handing me a flute.

Our glasses clink, and I take a sip. The champagne is crisp and dry, tiny bubbles dancing on my tongue.

“This is…” I struggle for the right word. “Perfect.”

Victor doesn’t hover. He sips his champagne and lets me wander, following at a distance that lets me know he’s there if I need him, but that I’m free to explore at my own pace.

I drift through fiction, memoirs, and history. My fingers trail along the spines, occasionally pulling one out to read the dust jacket.

“I used to hide in the public library after school,” I say, not turning around. “My dad was always working, always traveling for his diplomatic posts. Books were more reliable companions than people.”

Victor doesn’t interrupt, just listens.

I move to another section, drawn by familiar colors and designs. Romance novels. I pull one down. A historical romance with a cover showing a woman in a ball gown.

“These were my favorite escape,” I say, an unexpected sense of vulnerability settling over me. “Everyone made fun of romance readers in college. Called the books trash. Said they created unrealistic expectations.” I pull another book from the shelf because I recognize the author’s name. “But they were the only place I could find stories where someone like me got to be the main character.”

Victor steps closer and leans against the shelf. “What do you mean, someone like you?” His question is stern, a frown drawing his eyebrows closer together.

“Someone ordinary. These stories made me believe I was worth fighting for.”

His frown deepens as he lifts a hand to cup my jaw. “There’s nothing ordinary about you, Grace.”

I laugh softly. “You wouldn’t have looked twice at me if I hadn’t been brave enough to talk to you in high school.”

“You’re wrong.” His voice is steady and certain. “I’ve always seen you. Since the day we bumped into each other.”

I replace the book and select another. “Romance novels taught me what to look for. What to avoid. When I met Sampson and Kara in college, I thought I’d found my happy ending. It was the perfect triad.” My throat tightens. “Should have known better. Real life works nothing like books.”

Victor watches me, listening. Not judging. It spurs me to keep talking.

“After that disaster, I went back to romance novels. They’ve never betrayed me.” I set the book down, turning to face him. “When I started having stronger feelings for you, I kept telling myself it wasn’t real. That I was projecting fictional heroes onto you.”

His eyes soften. “And now?”