24. Casey
If someone had told me three months ago that Adriano Mancini would eventually become the kind of man who leaned silently against my bedroom doorway, watching me get ready with an expression that made it impossible to think straight, I would have laughed in their face.
Now?
Now I’m standing in front of the mirror trying to put mascara on while Adriano watches me from the doorway in a dark wool coat, and honestly, concentrating feels impossible with the heat of his gaze on me.
“You watching me will not make this go any faster,” I mutter, catching his reflection in the mirror again.
His mouth shifts slightly at the corner. “You’re taking too long.”
I narrow my eyes. “Some of us weren’t born looking like we walked out of an expensive cologne ad.”
He prowls toward me, his hands landing on my shoulders as he dips his head to my neck and kisses me. “No, you look like all my favorite dirty dreams come to life.”
“I think you’re sex drunk.”
“Hmm.”
The soft amusement in his voice sends warmth blooming low in my stomach anyway.
God.
This man.
The last two weeks have settled into something dangerously easy between us.
Not official, exactly.
No conversations about labels or expectations or where this is heading have taken place.
Just us, being us.
Adriano appearing in the annex almost every night with that look in his eyes that still makes my pulse trip over itself.
Falling asleep tangled together.
Waking up warm and sleepy and kissed half senseless before my eyes have opened fully.
Movie nights where I somehow end up draped across him on the couch while he works one-handed because the other stays absently spread over my thigh beneath the blanket.
“You’re staring again,” I say quietly.
“You’re beautiful. Why would I not stare?”
I glance at him through the mirror.
The honesty in his expression catches me slightly off guard even now. He believes every word he says.
Adriano rarely hides what he wants from me anymore.
And apparently, what he wants is me constantly.
The realization still sends stupid little sparks of heat through my chest every single time. “You know,” I say, reaching for my earrings, “most people at least attempt to play it cool.”
“I’ve never seen the point. Games serve no purpose.”
“That’s one of the things I l…” I almost say love, it almost slips past my lips like a thief, but I stop myself at the last second. “Like about you.”
“I like you too, Tesoro,” he says calmly, his hands massaging my shoulder as I watch him in the mirror, “which is why I want you in my bed every night.”
Heat climbs instantly into my cheeks.
He stops what he’s doing, one hand sliding slowly around my waist while the other takes the earring gently from my fingers before I can drop it.
The intimacy of the gesture does ridiculous things to me.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror as he fastens it carefully.
Then the other.
His fingers brush the side of my neck lightly afterward, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs.
I swallow once. “You make it difficult to concentrate sometimes.”
Something dark and satisfied flickers briefly through his expression.
The man genuinely enjoys undoing me.
Which honestly feels fair considering what he does to my nervous system daily.
“Good,” he says simply.
I turn then, meaning to say something sarcastic back, but the second I look at him properly, the words disappear completely.
He’s looking at me like he already knows how tonight ends.
Like he’s already thinking about kissing me breathless somewhere private later.
The heat in his eyes makes my stomach tighten instantly.
Dangerous man.
“You cannot look at me like that right before we leave the house,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to arrive at this date with at least some control over my body’s need for you.”
His thumb brushes slowly along my jaw. “I think we both know that stopped being possible a while ago—for either of us.”
Unfortunately, that’s true.
The worst part is—I don’t even mind anymore. I’ve never felt so wanted or wanted someone so much.
Snow falls softly over Manhattan by the time we leave the brownstone. I turn and wave at Elena, who is babysitting Letty for us, and she offers me a blown kiss.
The city glows beneath it, headlights blurred against wet streets while Adriano guides me toward the waiting car with one hand warm against my lower back.
The touch feels automatic now. On the couch, in bed, when we eat dinner, some part of him is always touching me, like he always needs me within reach.
Not possessive exactly, more grounding.
“You still aren’t telling me where we’re going?” I ask as the driver pulls away from the curb.
“No.”
“You’re very secretive.”
“All I hear is that you think I’m devastatingly mysterious.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He cups my chin and kisses me slow and deep. “It is to me.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head as I settle deeper into the leather seat against him.
Adriano watches me for a second too long.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
A faint smile appears briefly. “You’re happy.”
The quiet certainty in his voice catches me unexpectedly off guard.
Because he says it like it matters to him.
Like my happiness is something he actively monitors now.
Which, honestly, it probably is.
I glance toward the window before he can see too much on my face.
Snow drifts softly across the city outside while his hand settles over mine between us without hesitation.
Warm.
Steady.
Real.
“You seem happier too,” I admit quietly.
His thumb brushes once slowly across my knuckles. “That’s your fault.”
God.
This man.
Twenty minutes later, the car stops outside a narrow bookstore tucked between two older buildings on the Upper West Side.
I blink in surprise as I stare up at the softly lit windows glowing gold against the snow. “Adriano.”
He comes around the car before I can fully process what’s happening, reaching for my hand automatically once I step onto the pavement.
“You said you missed old bookstores like this.”
I stare at him properly now. “That was months ago.”
His expression shifts slightly, almost confused by my surprise. “I remember all the things you tell me. Even the small ones, Tesoro.”
The simple sincerity of it hits embarrassingly hard, making tears sting the back of my nose.
Before I can recover properly, he guides me toward the entrance.
The bell above the bookstore door chimes softly as we step inside. Warmth wraps around us immediately. Old wood, strong coffee, the familiar smell of paper. Soft music hums quietly somewhere near the back shelves.
My entire body relaxes instinctively. “Oh my God,” I breathe.
The bookstore is empty except for an older woman behind the counter who smiles knowingly the second Adriano walks in. “You made it through the snow then.”
He nods, flashing the woman a swoon-inducing look. “Of course,” he replies with a wink.
My eyes narrow immediately. “You planned this.”
“I wanted you to have the time to peruse in peace.”
I turn slowly toward him. “Did you rent out an entire bookstore?”
“You say that like it’s unreasonable.”
“It is unreasonable.”
“You’re smiling, so it wasn’t unreasonable.”
Annoyingly, he’s right. I am smiling like a lunatic.
The woman behind the counter laughs softly before disappearing toward the back, leaving us alone among towering shelves and warm amber lighting while snow drifts quietly beyond the windows outside.
I turn slowly in place, overwhelmed almost immediately by how perfect this feels. How thoughtful and kind. And suddenly I’m painfully aware of the difference between someone trying to impress me and someone actually seeing me.
Adriano says nothing as I wander slowly through the shelves. He just follows. Watching me with that same quiet attentiveness that’s becoming more dangerous to my emotional stability every day.
“You know,” I murmur eventually, tracing my fingers lightly along the spine of a novel, “this is maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
Something changes in his expression instantly.
Not pride.
Something softer.
Almost protective.
“You deserve nice things, and I want to give them to you.”
The simple honesty of it nearly undoes me completely. Part of me wants to ask him exactly what is happening between us, but the other part doesn’t want to burst the bubble and ruin it.
Before I can respond, my gaze catches on a familiar cover across the room.
My breath stops.
No.
Slowly, I cross toward the small display table near the back shelves.
And there it is.
A first edition copy of my mother’s favorite book. With trembling fingers, I pick it up and turn to the first page and my breath stops.
Signed.
Inside the cover, beneath the author’s signature, is a short, handwritten note.
For Casey.
Some stories stay with us because the people we loved handed them to us first.
Emotion crashes into me so fast it steals the breath from my lungs entirely. “Adriano…”
My voice breaks slightly around his name.
When I look up at him, he’s watching me carefully now, like he’s trying to judge whether he’s overstepped somehow.
God. This man.
“You mentioned reading it to your mother in the hospital,” he says quietly. “I thought maybe you should have your own copy.”
The fact that he remembers that conversation at all feels almost unbearable suddenly.
Because I told him that once.
Casually.
Weeks ago.
And somehow, he listened like it mattered, filed it away and remembered, so he could do something nice for me.
Tears sting unexpectedly behind my eyes before I can stop them.
Immediately, Adriano steps closer, concern flashing across his face. “Casey?”
I laugh shakily, embarrassed as I wipe quickly beneath my eyes. “I hate that you constantly make me emotional now.”
His hand slides gently along my jaw. “Come here.”
And just like always lately—
I walk into his arms, and he holds me like I’m precious.