Page 157 of The Art of Ruin

“You said you missed old bookstores like this.”

I stare at him properly now. “That was months ago.”

His expression shifts slightly, almost confused by my surprise. “I remember all the things you tell me. Even the small ones, Tesoro.”

The simple sincerity of it hits embarrassingly hard, making tears sting the back of my nose.

Before I can recover properly, he guides me toward the entrance.

The bell above the bookstore door chimes softly as we step inside. Warmth wraps around us immediately. Old wood, strongcoffee, the familiar smell of paper. Soft music hums quietly somewhere near the back shelves.

My entire body relaxes instinctively. “Oh my God,” I breathe.

The bookstore is empty except for an older woman behind the counter who smiles knowingly the second Adriano walks in. “You made it through the snow then.”

He nods, flashing the woman a swoon-inducing look. “Of course,” he replies with a wink.

My eyes narrow immediately. “You planned this.”

“I wanted you to have the time to peruse in peace.”

I turn slowly toward him. “Did you rent out an entire bookstore?”

“You say that like it’s unreasonable.”

“It is unreasonable.”

“You’re smiling, so it wasn’t unreasonable.”

Annoyingly, he’s right. I am smiling like a lunatic.

The woman behind the counter laughs softly before disappearing toward the back, leaving us alone among towering shelves and warm amber lighting while snow drifts quietly beyond the windows outside.

I turn slowly in place, overwhelmed almost immediately by how perfect this feels. How thoughtful and kind. And suddenly I’m painfully aware of the difference between someone trying to impress me and someone actually seeing me.

Adriano says nothing as I wander slowly through the shelves. He just follows. Watching me with that same quiet attentiveness that’s becoming more dangerous to my emotional stability every day.

“You know,” I murmur eventually, tracing my fingers lightly along the spine of a novel, “this is maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Something changes in his expression instantly.

Not pride.

Something softer.

Almost protective.

“You deserve nice things, and I want to give them to you.”

The simple honesty of it nearly undoes me completely. Part of me wants to ask him exactly what is happening between us, but the other part doesn’t want to burst the bubble and ruin it.

Before I can respond, my gaze catches on a familiar cover across the room.

My breath stops.

No.

Slowly, I cross toward the small display table near the back shelves.