Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I’ve seen first editions behind museum glass, and it looks exactly like that.
Would Lorenzo really have one sitting here like it’s a casual thing? Like it’s just another knife in his collection.
Yes.
Yes, he would.
I turn the page gently.
A thin pencil line runs along a passage. My eyes snag on the words.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
Like whoever underlined it hated how true it was.
My mouth goes dry. I trace the line with my fingertip, skin prickling.
“Of course,” I huff. “This is the passage that would be underlined.”
A floorboard creaks behind me, and my whole body stiffens. The book is still in my hands when I turn.
Lorenzo stands in the doorway. His expression is blank, but his eyes latch onto the book immediately, and something sharp flickers there. Recognition.
I don’t move, and neither does he.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.
“How do you always sneak up on me?” I clutch the book tighter. “Is this a talent of yours?”
Lorenzo eases the door shut behind him, and the soft click echoes through the space.
As he strolls over to me, his gaze doesn’t leave the book. Something about the look in his eyes seems predatory. Dangerous.
“Natural talent . . .” He stops a few feet away. His eyes drag up from the book to my face. “But you’re the one who looks guilty.”
I blink. “Guilty? For what? Reading? I think you’re projecting.”
His mouth curves, but only barely. A hint of amusement plays on his lips. “For touching my things.”
I hold up the book, fingers splayed around the worn leather. “It’s a book, Lorenzo. Not a gun.”
He takes a step closer, and I flash to the open book. His eyes dip to the underlined words, and something changes in his face so quickly I almost miss it.
A micro-flinch. A crack. Then his expression smooths again.
“Sometimes books are worse.” His voice is low enough to make me shiver.
And man, does my pulse do something stupid.
I hate my pulse.
I shift my grip, forcing myself to focus on the object instead of the man. “This is a first edition.”
His shoulders rise in a careless shrug as he drifts toward the nearest chair, lowering himself into it. One ankle rests over his knee.
“You’re observant,” he drawls.
My laugh comes out sharp. “That’s one way to phrase it. The other way would be . . . why do you have this just sitting here like it’s a paperback you found in a little free library?”
His gaze lifts again, slow and lazy. “Because I can.”
“Of course.” I flip the book closed and then reopen it, unable to stop myself. “Of course, the answer is because you can.”
Lorenzo’s eyes track every movement of my hands. “You’re looking at it like you’re planning on stealing it.”
“Not a bad idea. You need security,” I shoot back.
His mouth twitches. “I think I have plenty of that.”
I glare up at him, not finding his joke funny at all. “Have you finished it?”
The question slips out before I can stop it. All those years ago, we never did finish it.
For a second, I expect him to mock me. To make a joke. To turn it into something cruel and clever.
Instead, his gaze drops to the book again, and the air in the room shifts.
He leans back in the chair, fingers steepling for a moment like he’s deciding what version of himself he’s willing to show me. Then his jaw tightens.
“Many times,” he mutters under his breath.
I blink.
He’s showing a part of himself to me.
The most ordinary thing he’s offered me since the wedding, and my brain doesn’t know what to do with it.
“How many?” I ask, slower now, voice softer despite myself.
Lorenzo’s eyes lift—sharp, direct—and hold mine.
“Too many to count.”
The words hang in the room like a large weight.
A raw admission that he doesn’t dress up or pretend is something else.
It lands.
Hard.
Right in my chest.
My throat tightens in a way I hate. “That’s . . . depressing.”
His mouth curves, but it isn’t amused this time. It’s bitter. Almost tired.
“Depressing is the point.” He taps two fingers on the arm of the chair. “It’s a love story about obsession. Ruin. People who mistake destruction for devotion.”
My fingers curl around the pages. “You read it for fun?”
His gaze slides over me, slow and assessing. “I read it because it’s honest.”
I swallow. “Honest?”
Lorenzo’s eyes flick down to the book again, then back up. His voice stays quiet, but there’s steel underneath it . . . something personal.
“It doesn’t pretend love is gentle,” he tells me. “It doesn’t pretend that longing makes you noble. It admits what people really do when they want something they can’t have.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
All these years ago, we joked about the book and us, but now more than ever, it feels real. No longer a coincidence.
I try to smother it with sarcasm. “Do you keep it around as inspiration?”