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The front portion of the building was part library, part historical archive dedicated to Port Isle and the people who had made it what it was. Framed documents and photographs covered portions of the walls. Glass cases held reproductions and preserved artifacts, and one long display told the stories of the enslaved men and women who had escaped bondage and helped establish communities on the island. I drifted toward it without realizing I’d let go of Saadiq’s hand. I loved seeing and studying the history of people of African descent, no matter where they were in the diasporas. He followed me quietly.

That was the most surprising part, because Saadiq Masters always had something to say. But he let me read plaques, study photographs, and examine artifacts without rushing me. He just smiled at my excited, but hushed, outbursts.

The rear half of the building was completely different. Instead of exhibits and archives, books filled built-in shelves from floor to ceiling. It was legit a library, stocked with fiction, biographies, poetry, history, romance, mysteries, some of everything. Little reading areas had were tucked into corners and beneath windows. There were couches wide enough for two people to stretch out. Other areas had benches piled with pillows or deep chairs arranged side by side. A few low areas were covered in cushions and throws, clearly designed for couples to curl up together and read. It was so quiet and cozy.

I turned slowly, taking it all in. “Oh, this is dope. I love this,” I breathed.

“I figured you would,” he said smugly.

The concept of the place was that people read onsite, which meant I had to commit to one book for the afternoon. For me, that was harder than it sounded. I wandered through the shelves for so long Saadiq eventually leaned his tall frame against one and folded his arms.

“I mean… you gon’ read one today?” he asked casually.

I turned up my nose at him. “Dont rush me.”

“I’m not rushing you.”

“To me, you sounded rushy,” I said, placing a hand on my chest.

He shook his head. “Apple, that ain’t a word.”

“It is today.”

He chuckled and followed me into the romance section. Usually, I was a synopsis girl, but today, a cover caught my eye. I pulled the book down and stared at it.

Well, damn.

The man on the front was tall, milk-chocolate brown sporting a thick beard and wearing a suit like it was made for him. The completely unsubtle title was Pregnant for My Millionaire Boss.

I slowly looked at Saadiq. He slowly looked at the book. His lips tilted slightly. I glared at him.

“Don’t,” I warned.

He held up both hands innocently. “Girl, I ain’t say nothing.”

“You thinking.”

“Damn, I gotta control my thoughts, Apple?”

“You better try,” I mumbled, hugging the book against my chest. “He don’t look like you anyway,” I lied.

“You right,” he agreed.

My eyes tangled with his, and I gave myself away. “Why not?”

“Nigga too short.”

I walked away from his arrogant ass. His laughter followed me. At some point during my fake search for another book, he found a layer of cushions, covered them with a throw that he’d snagged from the villa, and sat down. Curious, I walked over to him.

“Come here,” he instructed, beckoning me downward.

“You don’t have a book,” I objected.

“This is for you, mama,” he said, then tugged on my hand.

Something about the softness in his voice made me give in. I sat curled between his ridiculously long legs and opened the book. For the first few pages, I was too aware of him behind me. My whole focus was his chest against my back and the weight of his arm around my middle. The story won out, though. The deeper I got into the juicy pages, the more I relaxed and melted into his body. He held me lightly, the rhythm of his breathing and the beat of his heart an accompaniment that lulled me into a comfortable calm.

At one point the heroine had to tell her arrogant ass boss off, let him know he didn’t run everything.