7. GEORGIE #2
Someone who belongs in Gavin's world.
"Hungry?"
"Starving."
"Good." His hand finds my thigh again, settling there with proprietary ease. "Made reservations."
The restaurant occupies the top floor of a downtown high-rise, all floor-to-ceiling windows and intimate lighting. The kind of place that requires reservations months in advance unless your name carries weight.
Gavin's name carries weight.
The ma?tre d' escorts us to a corner table with panoramic city views. Lights twinkle below, traffic patterns forming arteries of movement through the urban sprawl. A server materializes with menus and wine recommendations, then vanishes when Gavin dismisses him with a subtle gesture.
"Order whatever you want." He's shed his jacket, rolled his shirt sleeves to expose the tattoos covering his forearms. The contrast between refined setting and dangerous man makes my stomach flutter.
"You keep saying that."
"Because I mean it." He pours wine—something red and probably expensive—into my glass. "Every time."
The menu features dishes I can barely pronounce. Descriptions involving reductions and emulsions and ingredients I've only heard of in cooking shows. Back in my dorm, dinner meant ramen or whatever dining hall mystery meat seemed least suspicious.
This world Gavin inhabits, the one he's pulling me into, operates on completely different rules.
"Tell me about this bookstore." He leans back, wine glass dangling from long fingers. "The one you want to open."
Surprise makes me pause mid-menu perusal. "You actually want to hear about that?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
Fair point. Gavin doesn't waste words on empty pleasantries.
"Okay." I set the menu aside, warming to the subject despite my uncertainty.
"So I'm thinking something cozy. Not one of those sterile chain stores, but like...
a place that feels lived-in. Comfortable chairs where people can sit and read for hours.
Maybe a cat that hangs around and judges customers' book choices. "
His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. "A cat."
"Every good bookstore has a cat." I'm gesturing now, hands mapping out the imaginary space.
"And I want a section for rare books, like the ones we saw today.
Not crazy expensive, just... special editions for people who appreciate them.
Plus a coffee bar, because books and coffee go together.
Maybe host readings, book clubs, events for local authors. "
"Location?"
"Somewhere in the arts district, probably. Near the university but not right on campus. Students would come, but also professors and locals looking for something better than whatever algorithm a website recommends."
"Profit margins on bookstores are thin." He says it matter-of-factly, no judgment. "You'd need capital to sustain operations until you built a customer base."
"I know." My enthusiasm dims slightly. "That's why it's just a someday dream. After I finish my degree, get some business experience, save up enough to?—"
"How much?"
"What?"
"How much capital would you need?" He sets his wine glass down, attention focused entirely on me. "To open this bookstore."
My brain stalls. "I... I don't know. I haven't actually run the numbers. It's just something I think about sometimes when classes get boring."
"Think about it seriously." It's not a suggestion. "Run the numbers. Write a business plan. Then tell me what you need."
"Gavin, I can't ask you to?—"
"You're not asking. I'm offering." He reaches across the table, fingers closing around mine. "You're mine now, Georgie. That means your dreams are my responsibility."
The server returns before I can process that statement, before I can unpack the possessiveness and promise tangled together in those words.
We order—something with duck for him, pasta for me—and fall into easier conversation about classes and books and the absolutely pretentious art installation we can see in the building across the street.
But his words echo through everything. Your dreams are my responsibility.
Nobody's ever said anything like that to me before. Nobody's ever cared about my ambitions beyond polite interest. My mom certainly never asked what I wanted, too focused on her own mess to notice I existed beyond an occasional phone call.
And now this man, this dangerous crime boss who should terrify me, who kidnapped me and claimed me and rearranged my entire existence, wants to fund my dreams.
The food arrives in artistic arrangements that seem too pretty to eat. But hunger wins over aesthetics, and the first bite makes me moan slightly.
"Good?" Gavin asks, clearly amused.
"So good." I'm already going back for more, manners forgotten. "Try this."
I hold my fork across the table, offering a bite of the pasta. He leans forward, lips closing around the tines while maintaining eye contact that makes the gesture feel obscene despite our very public setting.
"Delicious." His voice drops lower. "Almost as good as you."
Heat floods my cheeks. "You can't say things like that here."
"Why not?" He cuts into his duck with surgical precision. "Nobody's listening."
"Still."