Page 60 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

I reached for the glass of wine and took a small sip. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make the corners of his mouth lift into a faint smile. I wanted him to feel relaxed.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me entirely,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I know I’m not the easiest person to be around.”

I laughed softly. “That’s an understatement.”

His smile widened, and I saw a hint of humor in his expression. “Fair enough.”

We started talking after that, our conversation flowing surprisingly easily. Roman asked me about the book I’d been reading. I teased him about the fact that his library was filled with books I doubted he’d ever read. He didn’t deny it, laughing when I called him out on the pristine condition of the spines.

“Do you collect the books just to have them?” I asked. “I didn’t even get to see a quarter of your library. It’s truly one of the biggest personal libraries I’ve ever seen. Well, let’s be honest, I’ve never actually seen a personal library.”

Roman chuckled, a sound I was quickly learning to appreciate. He didn’t laugh enough. He didn’t smile enough. “I suppose, in a way, yes. They are part of the aesthetic I desired for this place—a symbol of knowledge and culture. But maybe it’s time I actually started reading more of them.”

“Which book would you start with?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m a very black and white guy. I don’t know if I’m the kind of guy that can read fiction. I would pick it apart too much.”

I studied him. “What about biographies?”

“I don’t care enough about people.”

I giggled softly. “Honest.”

“That probably sounds like a dick thing to say, but I think we all have our own stories. What makes any one person any more interesting than the next?”

It was evident he valued his own privacy and solace over understanding others’ lives—a trait I found both frustrating and intriguing.

“Maybe, it’s not about one person being more interesting than another. It’s about seeing how someone else has navigated their unique challenges. You might find pieces of yourself in their stories, or you might learn something completely new.”

Roman looked pensive. “Maybe,” he conceded after a moment. “But I’ve always felt like we should deal with our own shit. It feels like telling one’s story is inviting people into your life. Like you need the attention or accolades. Or pity. That’s the last fucking thing I want.”

It was all very valid. “I get it. I guess I never really thought about it like that.”

“Do you like biographies?”

“Some. I do like to read about people living through extraordinary events. I find some to be inspirational. I couldn’t give a shit about politicians or⁠—”

“People like me,” he said with a twitch of his lips.

I grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t read my story.”

I didn’t want to tell him that I knew a little about his story and I did find it intriguing.

“I’ll let you get back to your book,” he said.

I didn’t want him to leave just yet. “Would you like me to recommend a book?” I asked. “Something juicy.”

He chuckled. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“How about you turn that fireplace on, and I’ll find you something? I bet you would like a good true crime thriller.”

“That sounds dark. Are you sure it’s a good idea for a guy like me to read a book like that? It might give me ideas.”