Page 156 of The Art of Ruin

The touch feels automatic now. On the couch, in bed, when we eat dinner, some part of him is always touching me, like he always needs me within reach.

Not possessive exactly, more grounding.

“You still aren’t telling me where we’re going?” I ask as the driver pulls away from the curb.

“No.”

“You’re very secretive.”

“All I hear is that you think I’m devastatingly mysterious.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He cups my chin and kisses me slow and deep. “It is to me.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head as I settle deeper into the leather seat against him.

Adriano watches me for a second too long.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

A faint smile appears briefly. “You’re happy.”

The quiet certainty in his voice catches me unexpectedly off guard.

Because he says it like it matters to him.

Like my happiness is something he actively monitors now.

Which, honestly, it probably is.

I glance toward the window before he can see too much on my face.

Snow drifts softly across the city outside while his hand settles over mine between us without hesitation.

Warm.

Steady.

Real.

“You seem happier too,” I admit quietly.

His thumb brushes once slowly across my knuckles. “That’s your fault.”

God.

This man.

Twenty minutes later, the car stops outside a narrow bookstore tucked between two older buildings on the Upper West Side.

I blink in surprise as I stare up at the softly lit windows glowing gold against the snow. “Adriano.”

He comes around the car before I can fully process what’s happening, reaching for my hand automatically once I step onto the pavement.