The realization struck him in the chest, punching the air from his lungs. He stared at the stack of books, imagining picking up life here in Willowbrook, with her.
And raising a family together.
God. When had he ever pictured himself having kids? Not before joining the Marines, and certainly not after.
He enjoyed his sister’s kids. He loved spending time with Navy. And the way Felicity looked at little CJ back at the ranch had made his chest tight, even if he couldn’t put words to why at the time.
He moved through the room, careful not to disturb anything.
“Where’s the best place in town?” He raised his voice enough for it to carry to Felicity.
Her voice floated from behind a half-closed door. “For what?”
“Dinner.”
A beat passed. Then her head popped around the doorframe, hair clipped up messily, one earring already sparkling in her lobe. “You don’t have a place in mind?”
He shrugged, trying to ignore the way her robe gapped at the chest, revealing a line of pale flesh he knew was freckled. His body took notice, though, his cock started to swell behind his fly.
“Prairie Ember,” she said. “I haven’t been yet. I’ve always wanted to go.” She bit her lip, uncertain. “But…I hear it’s expensive.”
“Money’s not a concern,” he said instantly. She had financial concerns, and he’d spent years packing away every dime he earned in the military and investing any bonuses he got for reenlisting. The least he could do was treat the woman he cared for.
“We can split the bill.”
He shook his head. “I know you’re independent as hell, bookshop. But I invited you out. Tonight’s on me.”
Eyes softening, she nodded. “Okay.” She slipped back into her room, leaving the door cracked as though she couldn’t bear to have any barriers between them.
He returned to studying her personal space. Her home felt as curated as her bookstore. Plants stretched their leaves toward the fading sunlight in every window. Cozy blankets were draped over the back of the couch and chair, and it was easy to picture her curled up in those spots with a good book.
Mismatched pillows marched down the length of the sofa like a row of little soldiers, and a lemon candle was burned down to its final inch.
Then there were the books. Shelves lined the wall beside the window, packed full and double-stacked like she’d run out of space years ago but refused to keep fewer books as a solution. Two more bookcases flanked the big-screen TV, in similar charming disarray.
He drifted toward them, fingers brushing the spines. Several were well-worn, the cracked spines showing how many times she’d read those copies. A few books were about rare printing techniques, as well as a section devoted to the history of libraries.
And then he saw them. Yes,them.
Not one or two or three butfourcopies of Wollstonecraft’s work, the same book she’d received in the box from Henry.
Gabe shook his head in disbelief, stepping closer to examine the same title in different editions.
Carefully, he drew one out of the space.
The spine cracked gently as he opened it, revealing neat underlines and notes in the margins in the looping handwriting he recognized from the note she gave him. Words about strength, reason and independence. The kind of lines a woman chose because they had meaning to her, because she wasn’t built to crumble.
“That’s Felicity,” he said under his breath. “Built from words and grit.”
It hit him harder than he expected—this glimpse into who she was when nobody was looking. The kind of thing a person didn’t tell anyone, traits you could only see when you knew the person deeply.
He set the book back gently.
“Okay,” she called, voice small and nervous. “Moment of truth.”
He turned.
And forgot everything.
