I add another book to his stack. He's now holding seven books, and I have to stand close to add the last one, reaching up. My body is nearly flush with his, and he goes very still. I step back, feeling my cheeks warm. I hold up a contemporary romance with a shirtless man on the cover. "Read this. I dare you."
Adrian looks at the cover with deep skepticism, eyes darting to the door, probably already plotting his escape. "This looks like it shouldn't have seen the light of day."
"It's a beautiful love story about second chances and healing from trauma."
"The gentleman isn't wearing a shirt."
"Very observant. Read it anyway."
Something about the challenge makes him agree. "Fine. One book."
I can't help my triumphant smile. While Adrian heads to the counter, I wander to the poetry section, running my fingers along spines, pulling out collections that catch my eye. When I return to the front, Adrian is paying for his purchases. The bag looks suspiciously full for just one book.
"How many books did you buy?" I ask.
"One. As agreed."
"That bag looks heavy for one book."
"It's a very dense book."
I know he's lying, but I don't call him out. Something warm unfurls in my chest at the thought of him secretly buying more of my recommendations.
When Adrian mentions the firm's charity gala next week—a perfect opportunity to practice being a couple in public—I agree without the hesitation I might have felt this morning.
"Black tie."
"Of course it is," and he almost-smiles again. That's when I realize I've started cataloging his smiles: the almost-smile, the one-corner-lift, the full smile I've only seen once. I'm in trouble. Like, deep trouble.
The daysbetween the bookstore and the gala pass in a strange rhythm. Adrian texts me daily—questions about my childhood, my favorite foods, stories I'd tell at family dinners. I answer, then ask my own.
Adrian:Favorite breakfast?
Me:Chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream. You?
Adrian:Plain oatmeal with fruit.
Me:That's not breakfast. That's punishment.
Adrian:First concert?
Me:Green Day, age 15, snuck out with Marcus.
Adrian:Beethoven's 9th, age 7, fell asleep.
Me:Of course you did.
The texts gradually shift from interrogation to conversation.
Adrian:Reading that book you recommended. The hero just punched someone for insulting the heroine.
Me:Wait till chapter 9 when they get stuck in the cabin during the snowstorm.
Adrian:There's a snowstorm cabin scenario? That's extremely convenient plotting.
Me:It's a classic trope for a reason. One bed, too.
Adrian:Of course. Had to be
