Chapter 3 #2
We spend another hour in the library, Adrian asking practical questions about the collection while I show him Violet's organizational system.
But something has shifted between us in this space.
When our hands accidentally touch, reaching for the same first edition of "Wuthering Heights," we both pull back, but slower than before.
The air feels different now—charged but not uncomfortable.
Comfortable but charged. I don't have words for it.
Ironic, I know. I make a living with words, and I can't even describe what's happening between us.
The light through the windows sharpens and releases more amber tones.
Adrian pulls out a small leather notebook, breaking the moment. "We should discuss logistics. If we're going to convince people we're in a relationship, we need to know each other's histories, preferences, stories."
I step back, shoving both hands in my back pockets. "This feels invasive."
"Couples know these things. If Victoria asks about your childhood pet, I need to know the answer."
"I had a goldfish named Mr. Darcy. He died heroically saving me from ... absolutely nothing. He just died."
Adrian makes a note.
"Are you actually writing that down?"
"Mr. Darcy. Goldfish. Died heroically," he repeats, completely serious.
I can't tell if he's messing with me or actually this meticulous. Both options are equally disturbing.
"We should continue this over lunch. I'm hungry, and I assume you are too," Adrian says. "There's an Italian place nearby I've researched."
"You researched restaurants, too?"
"I research everything."
"That must be exhausting."
He considers this. "Sometimes."
The drive into the nearby town feels different from this morning's drive out. We've crossed some invisible threshold, and neither of us quite knows what that means yet.
The restaurant is small, a charming Italian place with exposed brick walls and tables tucked into intimate corners. Adrian made reservations. Of course he did.
The hostess leads us to a corner booth, candlelight flickering between us.
So romantic, but then I notice that it is an LED candle.
Fake. We sit facing each other, and the waiter brings water, takes our drink orders.
When the wine arrives, it's actually perfect—rich and velvety, not too dry.
I'm not even a wine person since I prefer my ciders and champagne, but I admit this is good.
Adrian pulls a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket. Oh my God. He really is writing everything down. I'm torn between amusement and horror. "Are you serious right now?"
"Completely." He clicks his pen. "We need to know the basics. Favorite color?"
"That specific green on old Penguin paperbacks," I answer without hesitation.
"Allergies?"
"Seafood, particularly lobster."
He writes this down in neat, controlled handwriting. "What did you want to be when you grew up?"
"A librarian." I watch him write, finding it oddly endearing how seriously he's taking this. I hate that I find it endearing. "Your turn. Tell me about growing up."
He looks up, surprised. "Aren't you going to write anything down?"
"I just will," I say with more confidence than I feel. "Tell me about growing up."
Something about my confidence in remembering seems to touch him. He sets down his pen.
"Upper East Side childhood. Private schools, then boarding school from fourteen to eighteen." He pauses. "My father is Judith's partner, semi-retired now."
"And your mom?"
A shadow crosses his face. "Caroline. She died when I was twelve."
My heart constricts. "I'm sorry about your mom."
"It was twenty years ago."
"That doesn't make it not sad."
He looks at me as if surprised by the empathy. "She used to say I argued so well I should get paid for it. She was always a big proponent of, 'If you do something well, don't do it for free.' That's why I became a lawyer."
I smile softly. "She sounds amazing."
"She really was."
The candlelight softens his features, making him look younger, less guarded. I hate to admit it, and I'll probably never ever say it out loud, but I like this relaxed version of Adrian. He seems more human than a machine.
Our food arrives—gnocchi for me, risotto for him. Over garlic bread, we exchange relationship histories.
"Longest relationship?"
I feel defensive immediately. "Three months, sophomore year of college."
"And since then?"
"Nothing longer than eight weeks." I twirl pasta around my fork. "I got too focused on writing. Partners felt neglected, and I felt smothered. Turns out I'm better at writing love stories than living them."
"I've never been in love," he grimaces, "Not really."
"What about those relationships that ended?"
"Transactional. Convenient." He takes a sip of wine. "They ended because I prioritized work."
"So we're both disasters at relationships. We're like a match made in heaven."
"That's why this arrangement works. No expectations."
I study him across the table. "What do you do for fun, then?"
There's a long pause. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, then opens it again. "I read. I run. I..."
"That's it? That's your entire list?"
"I work."
I stare at him, horrified. "Adrian. This is tragic and really sad."
"What would you have me do? Book clubs on Thursdays and tea parties every weekend?"
"It's depressing. You run for fun? Who does that? The only way I'm running is if someone's chasing me."
"That, honestly, is so on-brand for you."
After lunch, I direct him to a small bookstore in the village that I discovered during my teenage summers. For a moment, I'm worried it's no longer there, but it is.
It's cramped and wonderful—narrow aisles, floor-to-ceiling shelves, organized chaos. My kind of place.
"Wow. This is ... extensive," Adrian whispers as we enter.
"This is paradise. Come on."
I'm on a mission, pulling books from shelves and piling them in Adrian's arms. Fiction, poetry, a graphic novel, and contemporary romance. His expression grows increasingly alarmed as the stack grows higher.
"I don't have time for leisure reading, Emmy."
"That's exactly why you need it."
I add another book to his stack. He's now holding seven books, and I have to stand close to add the last one, reaching up.
My body is nearly flush with his, and he goes very still.
I step back, feeling my cheeks warm. I hold up a contemporary romance with a shirtless man on the cover. "Read this. I dare you."
Adrian looks at the cover with deep skepticism, eyes darting to the door, probably already plotting his escape. "This looks like it shouldn't have seen the light of day."
"It's a beautiful love story about second chances and healing from trauma."
"The gentleman isn't wearing a shirt."
"Very observant. Read it anyway."
Something about the challenge makes him agree. "Fine. One book."
I can't help my triumphant smile. While Adrian heads to the counter, I wander to the poetry section, running my fingers along spines, pulling out collections that catch my eye. When I return to the front, Adrian is paying for his purchases. The bag looks suspiciously full for just one book.
"How many books did you buy?" I ask.
"One. As agreed."
"That bag looks heavy for one book."
"It's a very dense book."
I know he's lying, but I don't call him out. Something warm unfurls in my chest at the thought of him secretly buying more of my recommendations.
When Adrian mentions the firm's charity gala next week—a perfect opportunity to practice being a couple in public—I agree without the hesitation I might have felt this morning.
"Black tie."
"Of course it is," and he almost-smiles again. That's when I realize I've started cataloging his smiles: the almost-smile, the one-corner-lift, the full smile I've only seen once. I'm in trouble. Like, deep trouble.
The days between the bookstore and the gala pass in a strange rhythm. Adrian texts me daily—questions about my childhood, my favorite foods, stories I'd tell at family dinners. I answer, then ask my own.
Adrian: Favorite breakfast?
Me: Chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream. You?
Adrian: Plain oatmeal with fruit.
Me: That's not breakfast. That's punishment.
Adrian: First concert?
Me: Green Day, age 15, snuck out with Marcus.
Adrian: Beethoven's 9th, age 7, fell asleep.
Me: Of course you did.
The texts gradually shift from interrogation to conversation.
Adrian: Reading that book you recommended. The hero just punched someone for insulting the heroine.
Me: Wait till chapter 9 when they get stuck in the cabin during the snowstorm.
Adrian: There's a snowstorm cabin scenario? That's extremely convenient plotting.
Me: It's a classic trope for a reason. One bed, too.
Adrian: Of course. Had to be
Adrian: Just finished it. The ending was... okay.
Me: You LIKED it! Admit it!
Adrian: I found it less objectionable than expected.
Me: That's Adrian-speak for "I loved it and cried at the end."
Adrian: I did not cry.
Me: Sure, counselor. Whatever you say.
By the time the gala night arrives, I've learned that Adrian is allergic to bee stings, his favorite color is the blue-gray of dawn, and he once wanted to be a pianist until his mother died and practical concerns took over.
And I've admitted to myself that I'm looking forward to seeing him in a tuxedo far more than any fake girlfriend should.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, mascara wand hovering midair. My hand is shaking. Great. Because poking myself in the eye is exactly what I need right now.
Tonight isn't like our casual hangouts at the library or lunch. Tonight, we have to convince a roomful of Adrian's colleagues that we're in love. Professional skeptics, all of them.
I smudge my eyeliner and swear under my breath. This is fine. Everything is fine. Just a fake date with my fake boyfriend to a very real gala with very real people who can't know we're faking.
The doorbell rings exactly at 7:00 PM. Of course. Mr Atomic Clock has arrived.