CHAPTER 46 – ANTONIO
We’ve been driving for thirty minutes.
Caspian has survived E-Type, the Spice Girls, and La Bouche without revealing our destination.
No Doubt is playing now, and he just won’t budge.
“Can you at least give me a hint?” I ask. “Or is it against your vow of silence?”
Caspian grins. “I could, but I won’t.”
I glare at him. Zero success. He shouldn’t enjoy my suffering like this.
“You’re taking the lyrics too literally. Gwen Stefani doesn’t mean you can’t speak.”
Caspian’s smile is affectionate.
“Clever. But it’s still a surprise.”
“Shakespeare once wrote that ‘in delay there lies no plenty.’ What do you say about that?”
“I admire your bottomless vault of weird quotes, but I’m not telling you,” he says fondly.
Staring out the window, I let out a small, pitiable sigh.
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to know. If you decided to tell me now, I’d cover my ears.”
I look at him surreptitiously. He seems amused.
“Ma che cazzo,” I mutter under my breath.
I’m going to be so unimpressed by what he has planned that he will regret his evil tight-lippedness for the rest of his life.
Soon, he parks behind a broad, windowless building.
“Is this a warehouse?” I ask.
“It’s not a warehouse.”
“Ha! You gave me a hint.”
Shaking his head, he leads me through a staff entrance, past a security desk and down a narrow corridor lined with metal doors.
“Is this a prison?”
“Patience.”
“How old were you when your obsession with patience started?”
He just laughs.
We walk a bit further, and then, looking a bit nervous, he opens another door.
“We only have access to this one wing,” he explains.
The low sound of dehumidifiers greets me as we step into what I immediately realize is the Map Museum of South Ridge.
I turn to him, already buzzing with enthusiasm.
“How did you—what did you—Caspian?”
I lean over a glass case, careful not to touch.
A hand-colored vellum map from the early 17th century lies there in all its historical glory.
“I love this,” I tell him, gesturing around.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Caspian sounds genuinely pleased.
I inspect the map again.
“I can almost see the room,” I say, my voice hushed and reverent. “The candle is flickering and the mapmaker is holding a brush, painting the world as he knows it.”
I close my eyes. It all feels so vivid.
“Then the door opens, and a gentleman steps in. The mapmaker knows he’s in trouble—”
I clear my throat, cheeks flushed.
“The end.”
Caspian steps closer, radiating heat.
“I want to hear the rest of that story,” he murmurs. “Especially if the mapmaker was anything like you.”
“He was,” I admit, my whole skin on fire. “And the gentleman looked like you.”
Caspian’s gaze flicks briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. We
stare at each other for a while, the air thickening.
I try to focus.
“So, this museum. How did you get us here after hours?”
Muscles shift under his shirt when he gives a small shrug.
“I bribed the security guy.”
I fix him with a look. “Bribed how?”
“With a Taylor Swift ticket.”
My chest warms so fast it can’t be healthy.
“He was a Swiftie,” he adds earnestly, like that explains it. “It just happened.”
“It didn’t just happen, you made it happen. For me.”
“I wanted to make you happy. Besides, I bought the ticket ages ago on a
whim. So it’s not a big deal.”
I feel faint.
“Not a big deal? You don’t even care about history!”
“Hey, that’s not true,” he protests. “I care about it. Not as much as you, but, like, the normal amount.”
“That’s not what Steve said.”
“Steve’s an idiot.”
“Okay,” I say, unable to resist the opportunity, “give me a historical fact.”
His mind goes blank. I watch it happen.
“Um… cave paintings?”
He looks so pleased with himself that I want to kiss every inch of him.
“They were all the rage in the–uh–the Paleolithic era, right?”
My breath stutters.
“Stop talking dirty to me,” I groan, only half-joking.
“You like this? Okay, how about—hieroglyphs.”
I’m gone. Destroyed. A puddle of gooey substance.
“That’s all I got.” His eyes sparkle. “But now that I know the effect history words have on you, I’m going to study the hell out of them.”
How did I get this lucky?
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The words just slipped out.
Flustered, I point at a map of the Baltic Sea.
“I was talking to this nautical… naughty boy.”
I try to wink at the map before I remember I don’t know how. Instead, I squint.
“You make me lose control, map,” I whisper. “Your tides and currents drive me wild.”
Caspian pulls me against his chest.
I swear the room temperature rises by several degrees. I hope the parchments can handle the heat.
My cheeks are burning.
“Please ignore what I said,” I groan . “Please forget everything that happened during the last thirty seconds.”
He cups my jaw. My lashes flutter. I don’t look at him.
It’s too scary.
Gently, he tilts my chin so that our eyes meet.
He’s not laughing at me.
“I won’t ignore it.” He brings his lips closer. “Any of it. What you said goes straight into my archive.”
I shiver.
Is there anything hotter than Caspian saying “archive” in a museum? No, there cannot be.
“The archive of my heart,” he adds with a perfectly executed wink.
Well, that answered my earlier question. Caspian saying “the archive of my heart” is the hottest thing.
When we kiss, he holds me like he could carry me in his palm.
My knees buckle so fast the museum should install safety bars to prevent make-out injuries.
He backs me against the wall, deepening the kiss.
I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
He makes me yearn.
I’m yearning for Caspian Stone like a lovesick teenager, in a map museum.
“Okay,” I say when we finally pull back. “I can do swoony too.”
“I’m sure you can,” he says.
I press myself closer, enjoying the evidence that I’m not the only one affected by this.
“What do you have in mind?” he asks, his voice lower than usual.
“I’ll take you somewhere even better. Somewhere so hot your socks will melt.”
“I’m all ears,” he murmurs, brushing my lips with his.
An embarrassing mewl escapes me, and I almost choke on air.
Caspian waits patiently as I try to regain my dignity.
I have good news and bad news about the date I just promised him.
The bad news: I don’t have the slightest clue what could be better than this.
The good news: my hindsight remains excellent. Obviously plans should be made pre-boasting. Not during.
Once again, I’m saved by Marcus Aurelius.
“Never let the future disturb you,” I tell Caspian.
“I don’t know how to reply to that.”
“Earlier tonight, you refused to tell me where we’re going. That’s why I’m not telling you either.”
He laughs, and it’s a deep, happy sound that vibrates in my chest—and somewhere lower.
He grabs my waist and lifts me against the wall, effortlessly. I wrap my legs around him and he kisses me again, harder, pressing me into the wall with so much controlled strength I basically dissolve into air.
“Sure, that’s the reason you aren’t telling me,” he teases.
“Shut up,” I mutter, dragging him down for another kiss.
I have some serious date planning to do.