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"You know I can call a rideshare."

"I know. I'd rather make sure you get there safely."

"Are you secretly worried I'm going to get kidnapped by rival librarians?"

His mouth twitches. "Something like that."

I laugh and steal another piece of bacon. "Well, you'll have to get used to sharing me. I have a job and five demanding animals who were here long before you."

"I'm already jealous of those cats."

"As you should be. Murder Mittens has been known to bite men he doesn't approve of."

"Then I'll have to win him over."

"Good luck. I've been trying for years."

Enzo smiles as he takes my hand.

"When can I see you again?"

I look at him over my coffee. "Again? I figured you'd need at least a week to recover from my sparkling personality."

"Tomorrow evening?"

He's serious. This impossibly handsome, ridiculously wealthy man wants another date. With me.

"You're not wasting any time, are you?"

"Not when something matters."

I smile and take another sip of coffee to hide exactly how much that answer affects me.

"Tomorrow works."

"Good." He kisses me once more before reaching for his phone to arrange my ride.

As I sit in his enormous kitchen wearing his shirt, I realize that Enzo Moretti isn't treating me like a one-night stand. He's making plans that involve seeing me again, remembering my coffee order, and maybe eventually meeting five cats who have absolutely no idea their mother might be falling for a man who looks like he walked straight out of one of her romance novels.

Maybe it's too soon to get excited, and perhaps I'm setting myself up for another spectacular disappointment.

But when Enzo turns back toward me with that beautiful smile, I can't help wondering whether my romantic dry spell is finally over. And whether, for once in my life, Prince Charming might actually be interested in sticking around.

CHAPTER FIVE

BRIDGET

I've decided Lorenzo Moretti is trying to ruin me for every other man on the planet. When a gorgeous millionaire sends coffee to your workplace and calls before bed just to hear your voice, it's difficult not to develop expectations. Mine used to involve remembering my birthday and not sending dick pictures from public restrooms. The bar was embarrassingly low.

This morning, I arrive at the library to find a coffee with cream and two sugars waiting beside a chocolate croissant. A note in Enzo's handwriting is tucked beneath the cup.

Something sweet for my girl. Good luck with the children's reading program, tesoro. Enzo.

My girl. I've read those two words six times when Denise looks up from the circulation desk.

"You've got it bad."

"I'm checking his handwriting. Could be a serial killer."