He smirks. “Exactly.”
I keep my voice low. “But the clue is about us, right? About that night?”
He hums, pointing ahead. “We were in the psychology section.”
“Appropriate,” I murmur, trailing after him. He’s carrying the stack of books-slash-clues—if that were an Olympic sport, he’d bring home the gold—and he’s got his usual magnetic charm that turns every head in the room. “You know what’s weird?”
“Everything. Everything about this is extremely weird.”
“No, I mean… today’s my birthday.”
He gasps, then theatrically smacks his forehead. “Oh, shit. Is it?”
“Funny.” I shoot him a look. “This is kind of a treasure hunt, isn’t it?”
His teasing grin fades into something softer. “And your mom used to plan one for every birthday.” He cups my face. “So… this is not creepy. It’s kind of sweet?”
“Yeah, kind of.” My gaze lingers on the books in his arms.
The Art of Falling Slowly
Last First Kiss
The Love Alibi
Love, Late Fees, and Other Disasters
I squint at the covers. These are some of my favorite books—specifically, the ones Rafael annotated for me. It’s been a constant over the past three years: whenever I thought he might enjoy something, I told him to read it. He did, every time. And he left behind notes in the margins. Thoughts, jokes, cute and flirty lines. It’s still one of my favorite acts of love.
It can’t be by chance, but there isn’t a single other person in the world who would know which books he annotated for me, is there?Icertainly can’t remember telling anyone.
“Here,” he says, stopping at the spot where I almost tased him—and where, in return, he pointed a gun at me. “I guess we’re looking for a pastel cover?”
“A pink one.” I scan the shelf. “Only Ever You.”
He tilts his head, but doesn’t question it before he turns and starts searching the spines. And then I see it—a bright pink one, wedged behind his elbow.
I step forward and pull it out.
I always tell Rafael this is the book that fully completed my transition into being a romance reader. The one no other has ever topped. Which is funny, considering it revolves around the trope I had sworn I’d never get behind: arranged marriage.
I flip to the first page. There it is—my name, scribbled at the top, followed by the usual page and line number: Page 48, line 10.
“Did you notice,” I ask, my voice light as I thumb through it, “that these are all books you annotated for me?” Page 47, 48. I scroll through the lines until I reach the tenth one. “Who would know that besides me and…”
Turn around.
“You,” I whisper. I blink, my back straightening before I turn.
Instead of Rafael’s face, I’m met with a ring. A ring with a blackdiamond—small and discreet, exactly the kind I’d buy for myself. A ring sitting on velvet in a red box.
I swear I see white for a moment, like a flash-bang of emotion detonating before my eyes.
Then my gaze shifts past the ring to the man holding it. Tall. Tattooed. Beautiful. Kneeling. Looking up at me with a soft, uncharacteristically nervous smile.
“Freckles.”
“Holy motherfucking shitballs,” I say, my hands shaking.
