Chapter 3
EMMY
Aday after signing an agreement to fake-date Adrian, I'm standing on the curb outside my apartment building, wondering if I've lost my mind.
I tug at my cardigan sleeves, the one Violet referred to as my grandma outfit ("You look more like a grandmother than me."), shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My well-worn bag sits beside me—packed, unpacked, and repacked three times this morning.
What does one bring to fake relationship planning? Casual clothes? Business casual? My "I'm a serious adult who makes good decisions" outfit that I save for bank loan meetings?
And why am I overthinking this? It's not like I'm trying to impress Adrian.
Leaning against the brick facade of my apartment building, I check my phone again. 9:57 AM. He said he'd be here at 10:00, which means he'll arrive at exactly 10:00. Not 9:59, not 10:01. Wouldn't surprise me if he logs into the atomic clock to set his watch.
I fidget with the strap of my bag, trying to ignore the nervous energy buzzing through me.
I talk when I'm nervous. I'm already mentally rehearsing conversation starters that don't involve shouting at him about Violet's will or commenting on how his jawline could cut glass and how he looks exactly like the heroes in my books.
At exactly 10:00, a sleek black Audi pulls up to the curb. It looks wildly out of place on my street, where most vehicles are at least a decade old and covered in bumper stickers declaring the owner's political stance, musical taste, or love of rescue dogs.
Adrian steps out, and I immediately regret every outfit choice I've ever made.
He's in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that fits him perfectly, showing off shoulders that have no business being that broad.
His hair is styled but not overly so, and he's freshly shaved, the skin of his jaw smooth and touchable.
Not that I want to touch it. Nope, I'm not even thinking it.
He opens the passenger door. "Good morning."
That voice. It should be illegal before coffee. Also, how weird would it be if I turned that into my alarm ringtone?
"Morning," I say, sliding into the car.
The interior smells like expensive leather, citrus, and newness. No crumpled receipts, no forgotten coffee cups, no random books tossed in the backseat. The complete opposite of my ancient Subaru, which functions primarily as a mobile book storage unit.
Adrian slides into the driver's seat, and suddenly the car feels very small. I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me—his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the clean scent of his cologne.
He navigates into morning traffic with ease, driving exactly as I expected—hands at ten and two, checking the mirrors before he changes lanes, signals correctly, and puts a decent amount of distance between our car and the one in front.
Silence stretches between us, both of us thinking too hard about what to say.
"Would you like music?"
"Yes, please. Anything but talk radio."
He taps the screen, and soft jazz fills the car. John Coltrane. I turn to him in surprise.
"John Coltrane? I wouldn't have guessed that."
"I contain multitudes," he deadpans.
My eyebrows shoot up. "Did you just quote Walt Whitman?"
"Even lawyers occasionally read poetry."
"Occasionally, meaning once, in college, under duress?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Twice. The second time was voluntary."
I can't help but laugh, and some of the tension dissolves.
Adrian relaxes and loosens his grip on the steering wheel, and I notice his hands— again—the veins running along the back, a faint scar across his right knuckles.
They're nice hands. Strong. Capable. I look away before he catches me staring.
I scroll through his music library on the infotainment display, surprised again.
Classical, yes—Bach, Mozart, Chopin. But also Coltrane, Miles Davis, Bill Evans, and BB King.
Some rock like Nirvana and The Who. Even heavy metal like Black Sabbath and Slipknot.
Huh. Interesting. And who or what the fuck is. .. CamelPhat?
"Your music taste is ... unexpected," I admit, creating a new playlist.
"What were you expecting? Only classical compositions and podcasts about tax law?"
"Actually, yes."
He makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Adrian Hale laughing? I must be doing something right.
I catch myself staring at his profile, the way the morning light catches on his cheekbones.
Stop staring at his jawline. You have a jawline. Your perpetually angry neighbor from across the hall has a jawline. Everyone has jawlines. His is just ... particularly well-defined.
As we leave the city behind, the landscape opens up, and the trees begin to turn gold and crimson under the sun.
The farther we get from the city, the quieter I become.
My anxiety returns. I haven't been back since the funeral.
The last time I saw the library, I was helping the staff cover the furniture with sheets, locking windows, and preparing to leave with no certainty I'd ever return.
Adrian glances over. "We can turn around if you're not ready."
His perceptiveness surprises me. "No. I need to do this."
His hand moves from the gearshift and briefly covers mine on the console between us. The touch is meant to be comforting, not romantic, but heat blooms where our skin connects. His hand is warm, a little rough along the palm. Rough? It lingers for three seconds before he returns it to the wheel.
Those three seconds are enough to set my pulse racing and my core clenching.
Oh, look at me. A seasoned romance novelist, getting turned on by a non-romantic pat. A consoling pat, one you might expect to receive at a funeral or in a hospital bed.
My anxiety about seeing the estate mingles with something else—awareness of Adrian beside me, the way his sweater pulls across his shoulders when he shifts gears, how he hums almost inaudibly along with songs he knows. And even those he doesn't know.
When the wrought-iron gates of Violet's estate come into view, my chest tightens.
The gravel crunches under the tires as we wind up the long driveway, and I press my thumb against my palm the way I used to press Violet's brooch.
Adrian parks near the front steps but doesn't immediately turn off the engine, giving me a moment.
"Ready?" and his voice has gone softer than I've ever heard it.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The mansion looms before us, Victorian Gothic in all its glory, with its steep gabled roofs and ornate trim.
We walk in silence through the grand entrance hall, past the staircase with its carved oak banister.
My footsteps echo on the hardwood floors, each one taking me closer to the place I've been both longing for and dreading.
At the entrance to the east wing, I pause, hand on the double doors. Taking a deep breath, I push them open.
My breath turns ragged, like it always does whenever I stand here.
Three stories of books rise around us, connected by wrought-iron spiral staircases.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on the east wall, their stained glass panels filter the morning light into rivers of color across the hardwood floors.
Crimson, gold, emerald, sapphire—the light feels almost tangible, alive, dancing across the Persian rugs and illuminating dust motes that swirl like constellations.
I step inside, drawn by an invisible thread.
Rolling ladders on brass rails wait to provide access to the highest shelves.
Dark mahogany bookcases stretch upward, laden with leather-bound volumes.
The room smells of old paper, with an underlying mustiness that speaks of age and history.
The silence feels sacred, broken only by the grandfather clock's steady tick and our footsteps on the hardwood.
This is the exact reason I was never envious of Belle when she discovered Beast's library.
Mine is so much grander.
My fingers trail along the spines as I walk—smooth leather, worn cloth, embossed titles in gold and silver.
The temperature is cool, maintained for preservation.
A Chesterfield sofa sits before the fireplace, its leather worn from years of use.
And there—Violet's empty Queen Anne chair by the window, where she'd sit for hours with a book and a cup of tea. Earl Grey.
This place holds so many memories. Summers spent reading in the window seat, late-night conversations with Violet about books and life and love, the day I told her I wanted to be a writer, she simply said, "Of course you do, darling. You always have been."
I blink rapidly, fighting the burning in my eyes quickly before the tears can fall, and turn to find Adrian standing near the door, watching me. His expression is softer than I've ever seen it, open in a way that makes my heart stutter.
He moves toward the shelves, his fingers hover near the spines, not quite touching. "When she invited me here, she said I needed to remember how to breathe. That the law had dried out my soul."
Despite the emotion clogging my throat, I laugh. "That sounds exactly like her."
Adrian looks up at the stained glass, the colored light playing across his features. He cuts such a sharp profile that it makes my mouth water. "Coming here felt like breathing fresh air for the first time. Like I could finally relax. So different from how I felt back in my apartment."
The weight in his voice, the vulnerability—it's so unexpected that I find myself staring at him differently. Not as the corporate robot, but as someone deeper, someone Violet saw value in.
Maybe that's why Violet did this. She saw something in both of us. Something we couldn't see ourselves. Something we're still too scared to name.
We stand in the colored light, surrounded by books that shaped us both, an understanding passing between us that neither of us speaks aloud.