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“I’m so sorry,” I mumble again, slinking back to my seat, although I can’t imagine sitting through the rest of the meal with Matt and Veronica after everything that just transpired.
Apparently, Veronica had the same thought. “We should go, Matt. I’m sure we’ve all lost our appetite.” She scrapes back her chair and stands.
“But it’s prepaid,” Matt protests.
She shoots him a silencing glare, and he scrambles out of his seat.
“I’m sorry, Q.” Ethan drags his fingers through his hair, watching them walk away with a look of dismay. “I didn’t mean to ruin your big night.”
“You didn’t. Honestly. When Matt and Veronica started being… well, their usual selves, I wished I never agreed to this dinner and that we had stuck with whatever you had planned instead. So, in a way,I’mthe one who ruined the night by veering from the original plans.”
“It’s not too late, you know.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile.
“But you already canceled your reservations.”
“True. But the owner is a friend who insists on doing me a favor since I built their website pro bono. So, what do you say? Celebratory night do-over?”
“I’d like that.”
As I watch Ethan explain the situation to Rowen, and leave him with a generous tip, I’m once again struck by how kind and thoughtful Ethan is, that even after the disastrous events thus far, he’s going out of his way to make the night special. While I’m saddened by the way things turned out with Matt and Veronica, I can’t help feeling like the evening is unfolding exactly as it should—with me and Ethan, just the two of us, together. And a not-so-small part of me is excited to find out where he plans on taking me.
But when we exit the cab in front of a bookstore in Brooklyn—a bookstore that is obviously closed—I’m left more clueless than before.
What on earth are we doing here?
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Ethan skips up the short brick steps and knocks on the door, three raps in rapid succession. I don’t know what he’s expecting to happen. The Closed sign couldn’t be clearer.
But to my surprise, the solid brass hinges squeak open. A young woman greets him with a wide, warm smile. “Ciao, Ethan. You made it.”
“Thanks for squeezing us in again.”
“My pleasure! Come in, come in.” She ushers us past the threshold before locking the door behind us.
Once inside, I do a double take. The bookstore is bathed in soft, ambient light emanating from vintage Tiffany lampshades, each polished piece of stained glass glowing a different vibrant color. Flickering candles in crystal votives dot the heavy oak shelves, illuminating the supple leather bindings. I notice a diverse range of glossy contemporary covers, classic hardbacks, and a front table featuring famous Italian writers from centuries past.
But what strikes me the most isn’t the fact that I’ve walked into every self-proclaimed bookworm’s paradise. Although, I’m definitely awestruck. What really has me baffled is the smell. The familiar scent of printing paper, ink, and worn leather mingles with the most mouthwatering aroma of roasted garlic, aged Parmesan, and freshly baked focaccia bread. It’s heavenly and wholly unexpected.
Bewildered, I glance at Ethan. He’s grinning at me with a mixture of delight and excitement, like when you’ve given someone the perfect gift and can’t wait for them to open it.
“Gabrielle, this is Quincy. Quincy, Gabrielle.”
“Hi,” I say shyly, feeling out of my element.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Quincy. Welcome to Libro.”
“Or,” Ethan interjects, “as locals lovingly call it, Books & Bread.”
Gabrielle laughs. “I’ll have to share that with my father.”
“How is the chef tonight?” Ethan asks, furthering my confusion. I can’t seem to reconcile what I’m seeing with what I’m smelling.
“Experimenting, as always. But I think you’ll be pleased with tonight’s menu.” She leads us down a narrow aisle with towering bookshelves on either side, and my eyes widen when I spot the small round tables tucked at the end of each row. Dreamy-eyed couples and intimate parties of four are bent over the most scrumptious-looking meals, deep in conversation as candlelight bounces off beautifully bound books, creating the most idyllic atmosphere I’ve ever seen.
Gabrielle pauses at the last stack. The sign overhead reads Poetry-Romance. My heart flutters. “I hope this is to your liking,” Gabrielle tells Ethan, gesturing to the table set for two at the end of the row.
“It’s perfect, Gabby. Thanks.”
