“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and leading me away from the candles. “There’s a section I want you to see.”
I groan. “If it’s your detective novels?—”
“It’s not,” he says, chuckling. “I promise I won’t make you read them. Even though I desperately want to start a book club with you.”
“Okay, but Itoldyou,” I say as we turn a corner past the children’s section, “I’m pretty picky about my books.”
But then he stops us at an endcap with only a select few paperbacks with illustrated covers.
Each one has a cat on it.
I frown and pluck one of the books off the shelf.
Purrdur in the First Degree.
“Oh my god,” I mutter.
“You said you wanted cozy cat murder mysteries,” Ivan says proudly. “Here they are.”
He remembered my off handed comment from weeks ago?
Before I can express my surprise, he takes two of the same title off the shelf.
“Why two?” I ask.
“One for me, one for you,” he says easily. “The start of our book club.”
I’m so happy I could kiss him right there in the bookstore.
I settle for standing on my tiptoes and pecking him on the cheek.
He responds by wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me close to his chest.
It isn’t long until he’s purring for me, his Alpha rumble soothing me. I close my eyes and breathe deeply against him, my heart rate slowing.
My inner Omega, deeply enamored with him, only echoes one word.
Mine.
“You are ridiculously nice,”I tell him at dinner. My new books are safely tucked away in a bag in my car, along with the candle that Ivan saw me sniff repeatedly with a far-off look on my face.
Despite my objections, he purchased everything, and we split a brown butter chocolate chip cookie.
It’s arguably the best date I’ve ever been on, and it’s only halfway done.
The restaurant we picked is busy, but the food arrives quickly and the service is great.
“I’m not,” he insists, after taking a bite of a fry. “I missed your birthday and the holidays.Also,” he says, after I roll my eyes, “I like buying gifts for people. So, the joke is on you. I’m not nice at all. I’m selfish.”
“Uh-huh. I think you’re just full of shit, Ivan.”
But it works. Presents are my secret love language, and I’m a bit ashamed of it, worried I’ll come off as selfish or materialistic. Especially when the only gifts I received growing up were from my brother.
Yet Ivan loves to do it, so how can I complain?
“And I think you’re just being difficult,Maeve.”
I stick my tongue out at him.
