Arthur was already seated when I returned. He rose slightly as I approached—another green flag—then waited until I sat before doing the same.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again.
“I am,” I said, still a little shaken. “Thank you for… that.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Of course.” He studied me for a beat, then cleared his throat. “We’ve covered some heavy topics, but there’s so much I still don’t know about you. What do you enjoy? Inyour free time?”
I huffed a small laugh. “I don’t really have a social life. Unless baking with my elderly neighbor counts. Or talking about book tropes with her cat. And I’m supposed to be writing my dissertation manuscript, but I can’t get past the first page.”
His attention sharpened. “Why not?”
I shrugged. “Fear? Perfectionism? Every time I start, I hear this voice in my head telling me it’s going to be awful.”
“You should ignore that voice,” he murmured. “And for what it’s worth… I understand the social part.”
“You do?”
He nodded, the expression on his face completely sincere. “My closest friend is an old man who used to be my childhood butler. He now serves as my highest advisor. We speak every day.”
I stared at him. “Your best friend is your elderly ex-butler.”
“Yes.”
“And mine is an eighty-year-old retired best-selling screenwriter who bakes aggressively and owns a cat with abandonment issues.”
He considered, then said, “It seems we both prefer friends who possess wisdom.”
I snorted. “Or we’re both just… very peculiar.”
His mouth curved, just slightly. “I like our odds.”
The warmth that spread through me surprised me. It was rare not having to explain myself into something more palatable.
“What about you?” I asked. “Why is this book so important to you?”
He hesitated just long enough for me to notice. “It is important to my family. Finding the missing pages matters. That’s all.”
I didn’t push. I knew that tone. It was the tone people used when grief had jagged edges.
My mind drifted to my parents, and I think he sensed it, because a sort of recognition flickered in his eyes.
So, we talked about safer things. Books and food, places we’d traveled to, places we wanted to travel to. We laughed. We shared bruschetta from the same plate like it wasn’t intimate when it absolutely was.
Somewhere between his smile and the way he listened—really listened—I forgot to brace for the next thing going wrong.
Eventually, he asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”
I nearly choked on a tomato. “No.”
His shoulders loosened. “Good. I mean—not good. Just… informative.”
My pulse fluttered, but I absolutely refused to analyze it.
“And you?” I asked. “Anyone special?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t have time for romance.”
A tiny pinch bloomed low in my chest, which was ridiculous. I smoothed my expression before he could notice and nodded quickly—too quickly.
