He bent his head and took his time, and I rose onto my toes to meet him. His free hand settled at my waist again, steadying me as if he already knew I was in danger of forgetting how my knees worked. The kiss was different from the one in the break room, slower and far more deliberate. By the time he drew back, my lips tingled and my pulse was somewhere up around my eyebrows.
“I’ll text when I am on my way tomorrow,” he said, his voice rougher than usual.
“Good,” I said, because full sentences had apparently abandoned me.
He looked like he might say something else. Instead, he brushed his thumb once over my cheek and stepped back.
I got into my car on legs that felt suspiciously unreliable, but by the time I pulled out of the parking lot, I was smiling so hard it hurt.
Tomorrow night, Rion would be in my apartment. My tiny, definitely not designed for a minotaur apartment. I would need to move at least one chair. Possibly two. Maybe the lamp.
But all I could really think about was the feel of his hand at my waist, the taste of his kiss, and the quiet certainty in his voice when he said he would like that.
My life had become stranger and sweeter than any story I had ever shelved. And for once, I was not afraid of what came next.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’d spent the entire day in a state of controlled panic. Dinner with Rion—in my apartment—had seemed like such a brilliant idea yesterday. Now, as I frantically wiped down every surface for the third time, I questioned my sanity.
My apartment, while charming in a quirky, bookish way, was definitely not designed with seven-foot-tall minotaurs in mind. The ceilings were low enough that I worried he’d have to duck through doorways, and my kitchen was generous by New York standards but still essentially a glorified hallway.
“It’s fine,” I muttered to myself, straightening the throw pillows on my sofa. “Just dinner. Between friends. Who occasionally fantasize about touching each other’s… horns.”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman with multiple degrees who could alphabetize an entire section of Medieval Literature without breaking a sweat. Why was I losing my mind over pasta?
The answer, of course, was that this wasn’t about pasta. It was about the way Rion’s knee had pressed against mine under thelibrary’s break room table. The intensity in his dark eyes when I’d asked what he saw when he looked at me. The gentle weight of his hand on my shoulder as we’d said goodnight.
My phone chimed with a text notification.
On my way. 10 minutes.
Short, direct, so very Rion. I smiled despite my nerves and sent back a thumbs-up emoji. I’d learned that he appreciated their efficiency—a sentiment conveyed without wasted words.
I gave my apartment one final inspection. Pasta water ready to boil. Sauce simmering. Wine breathing (did minotaurs drink wine? Too late to ask now). Coffee table cleared of the usual book avalanche. Ceiling height… Well, we’d deal with that when he arrived.
At precisely 7:00 PM, my doorbell rang. Punctuality, another very Rion trait. I smoothed my dress—casual but nicer than my usual library attire—and took a deep breath before opening the door.
The sight of him still took my breath away. He filled the doorframe completely, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides, his horns gleaming in the hallway light. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal button-down shirt that strained slightly across his chest, clearly tailored but still fighting a losing battle against his physique. His usual wide-brimmed hat was absent, his horns proudly visible.
And in his arms, he carried what appeared to be an entire bakery’s worth of bread.
“You came,” I said, immediately wanting to kick myself for stating the obvious.
“I said I would.” His deep voice rumbled pleasantly, sending a familiar warmth through me. He nodded towards his armful of baked goods. “I brought bread.”
“I can see that,” I laughed, stepping back to let him in. “Did you leave any flour in the state?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he ducked—as predicted—to enter my apartment. “I wasn’t sure what type would pair best with pasta. So I made several.”
He set his offerings on my kitchen counter: a golden baguette, a round loaf of what looked like sourdough, some kind of herb-flecked focaccia, and a small package that I suspected contained his famous biscuits.
“This is… wow.” I examined the breads, inhaling their rich, yeasty aroma. “You made all of these today?”
He shrugged, a gesture that on his massive frame looked like mountains shifting. “Baking calms me.”
“Were you nervous?” The question slipped out before I could filter it.
His dark eyes met mine. “Yes.”
