Chapter 24
Before I pulled open the restaurant door, I eased out of my suit jacket and settled it over Shannon’s shoulders.
She slipped her arms into the sleeves, disappearing beneath fabric far too big for her.
When I reached for her hand, her fingers curled into mine like they’d been waiting for the invitation all night.
The same low current that had crackled between us over dinner still ran under my skin, lighting me on fire every time her thumb brushed mine.
Westward Books was down the street from the restaurant, so we stepped outside and headed toward the old brick building that looked as if it had stood there for a century.
Warm light spilled through the tall windows, revealing towering shelves beyond the glass.
Books climbed from floor to ceiling, broken only by rolling wooden ladders and worn leather chairs.
Shannon slowed beside me, her gaze climbing past the first floor, to the second, then the third.
I’d never seen anyone look at a bookstore the way hockey players looked at the Stanley Cup.
There was wonder in it. Reverence, even.
Like this was the happiest moment of her entire life.
I wanted to keep putting that expression on her face forever.
I pulled open the heavy wooden door, the scent of old paper, fresh coffee, and polished wood drifting onto the sidewalk before we even stepped inside.
Shelves stretched toward the ceiling in every direction, disappearing onto balconies overhead before climbing another flight of stairs.
Every table held impossible stacks of hardcovers, handwritten recommendation cards tucked beneath worn paperbacks, reading chairs nestled into corners beneath brass lamps.
Shannon turned in a slow circle. “This place is…”
She never finished the sentence, but she didn’t need to. Her face—wide-eyed, soft, almost disbelieving—said everything. “Where is everyone?”
“They’re closed.”
Confusion flickered across her face. “Then why are we here?”
I shrugged, more nervous than I’d felt all night. “Because I asked if they’d stay open.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “For us?”
“For you.” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the weight of the gesture more than I expected. “You said the bookstore in New York was crowded. This way you don’t have to worry about anyone else while you’re here.”
Her lips parted. Those pretty grey eyes blinked up at me in surprise, and for a second the air between us felt thinner than it should have.
“Take as long as you want,” I said, voice lower than I meant it to be. “Anything you pick is yours.”
For the first ten minutes, she drifted through the shelves with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning.
But it didn’t take long for me to notice a pattern.
She’d pull a book free, read the back, then carefully slide it back into place.
Again and again. By the sixth book, something deep inside me clicked open, sharp and protective.
This wasn’t pickiness.
Shannon was so used to shoving her own wants aside that they barely existed anymore. She could look at something she clearly wanted and still deny herself without hesitation.
And fuck, if that wasn’t exactly what she’d been doing with me.
She’d let me touch her when it felt temporary.
When it could still be written off as adrenaline or proximity or the strange, convenient arrangement we’d made.
But the second it mattered—when it stopped being casual and started being real—she put me back on the shelf the same way she did these books.
Not because she didn’t want me. Because she did.
Because wanting something this much was dangerous, and Shannon had spent her whole life learning how to walk away from dangerous things before they could cost her.
There was no adrenaline left to blame tonight. No forced proximity. No convenient excuse. Just the two of us standing in an empty bookstore, recklessly, heedlessly drawn to each other, and she was still trying to put the wanting back where it belonged.
But I was done sitting on the shelf.
This did matter, and it wasn’t casual.
It was real.
“Pick one for me.”
She looked over. “What?”
“A book.” I stepped beside her, close enough that my sleeve brushed her arm. “Your favorite one.”
One eyebrow lifted. “You’ll read whatever I pick?”
“If you recommend it, then yes.”
The smile she gave me then was dangerous.
Every part of me wanted to close the last few inches, pull her against my chest, and find out what that smile tasted like.
My hands stayed in my pockets by sheer force of will.
The tension that had been simmering since dinner was no longer simmering.
It was boiling, thick and inevitable, and I could see the same awareness in her eyes when she glanced at my mouth before looking away.
Shannon turned back toward the romance section, tapping her chin with a finger. “This feels like a trap. If I pick something terrible, you’ll never let me live it down.”
“I trust you.”
She looked at me over her shoulder. The glance lasted a beat too long. “Then I guess I shouldn’t go with the why choose mafia romance.”
A quiet laugh escaped me as she disappeared between the shelves.
This time she moved slower, pulling books free instead of putting them back.
Every few minutes she’d glance toward me, only to catch me staring.
The air between the stacks felt charged, like the moment right before a fight drops or a kiss lands—something inevitable and irreversible.
Finally, she returned, holding a paperback against her chest.
“Okay.” She held it out. “This one.”
I looked down at the illustrated cover. Two people stood back-to-back, glaring at each other with enough chemistry that even I could see where the story was headed.
When I lifted my eyes to hers again, the same chemistry was standing right in front of me, close enough to touch, and neither of us was stepping back.
The corner of her mouth lifted. "You said anything."
"I did."
"No complaining halfway through."
"I won't."
She studied me for another second, waiting for me to back out. When I didn't, she handed me the book.
"Good." Her smile softened. "You're going to love it."
I turned back toward the fantasy section she’d walked through multiple times. “My turn now.”
“For what?”
Rows of dark book covers with different scrolling text sat in front of me, but I passed them all and went back to the glass case at the end of the aisle Shannon kept glancing at.
Inside was a special edition set of an older fantasy series I’d read before, full of dragons and magic and lore.
They weren’t brand new, the hardbacks showing age on the corners, but the gold foil text and details were stunning.
“That one.” I pointed at it, waiting until Shannon followed my gaze.
“Have you read that one?” she asked, her voice sounding a little breathless.
“The whole series, yes. Have you?”
She walked closer to the display. “The price tag isn’t even on it. What if it’s not for sale?”
“What have we learned about asking nicely for things?” I kissed her temple, then walked across the store to find the bookseller behind the counter.
After a brief discussion, she followed me back upstairs to the display where Shannon still stood, biting the tips of her black nails.
“Oh, I love this one,” the clerk said. “You have great taste.”
Shannon’s eyes found mine as the clerk removed not just book one, but all of them, and the series below it that was the spin-off as well.
“It’s too much,” she whispered, eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t need this.”
“But do you want it?”
She hesitated a moment, then gave me the smallest nod.
“Thank you.”
This time, I pulled her into my chest, putting my hands on her hips. She rested hers on my chest, looking up at me.
“Someday I hope you realize that I’d give you anything you ever wanted, even when you’re too afraid to ask.”
Those grey eyes bounced between mine, blinking away tears.
“You’re too good for me.”
I shook my head, then leaned down and kissed her. It was sweeter than all the kisses we’d shared before. “I’m barely good enough.”
We left the bookstore a little while later after she’d insisted I cheated and had chosen what she wanted, not what I would have chosen for her. That led to a quick trip down the mystery aisle where I’d stolen another kiss, then excitedly explained the plot of my own favorite novel.
The drive home was quiet, but it wasn’t the awkward kind that you had the itch to fill. It was comfortable, easy even, with Shannon's hand in mine, and the bookstore bags tucked safely in the backseat.
Logan was waiting when we walked through the front door, half-asleep on the couch with the baby monitor balanced on his stomach. He gave Shannon a quick hug, wished her a happy birthday, then disappeared toward the elevator.
The apartment settled into silence behind him.
Leena was asleep.
The fire crackled softly in the living room.
Shannon carried the bookstore bag toward the couch, then dropped into her favorite spot, kicking off her shoes. She reached into the bag, pulling out my romance and her mystery.
“Ready?”
I untucked my shirt and rolled up the sleeves, then took the spot next to her and grabbed my glasses from the coffee table.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Reading together was something Shannon and I did most nights, so this shouldn’t have been any different. Except by the third chapter, I realized this wasn’t my typical book.
My eyes flew over the page, reading faster than I usually did.
The opening scene hit like a slap shot to the chest—raw, immediate, and filthy in the best way.
A stranger’s hands sliding up a woman’s thighs in a dimly lit hotel room, her back arching off the bed as he dropped to his knees and tasted her like he was starving for it.