Simultaneously, we release for air, foreheads coming together.
“These shorts are gonna be a problem,” he says with a final pinch.
I laugh, still breathless, as we peel our bodies apart.
“I didn’t bring flowers.”
“Clearly.”
“Smartass. But I do come bearing gifts.” He pulls a package of peanut butter M&Ms from his pocket and the burst of laughter that escapes me is instant. “I know the way to your heart, Fish, and it isn’t flowers.”
I take the package, clutching it to my chest like a prized possession. It’s such a tiny, silly thing, but thoughtful all the same and I love him for it.
I love him.
“It’sthe best kept secret for deep dish pizza in the city. It’ll be worth the wait.”
Connor holds the door for me as we exit the tiny Italian restaurant. We’re on the wait list and now we have an hour to kill.
“Is this the part where we debate Chicago versus New York pizza?”
He scoffs as he takes my hand and leads me down the sidewalk. “Oh, please. There is no comparison. Deep dish for life.”
“Nah, you just haven’t had the New York experience yet. I’ll convert you.” I nudge his shoulder as my comment settles over the moment. My interview is next week and the painful reality is that I’llbe leaving my heart behind in Chicago. He said we’d talk about it later and I don’t want this subject to sour our first date so I push past the intrusive thoughts and plaster on a smile.
He nudges me back with a wink, his signature smirk all warm and smug. “If anybody could convert me, it’d be you.”
He plants a soft kiss on the back of my hand, bringing us to a stop.
“We’re here.”
Only half a block from the restaurant, I look up at the unmarked shop before us. The windows are foggy and mostly barricaded by shelves pushed up against them from the inside. There’s no commerce-friendly glass entrance door. Instead, a solid wood door, painted dark blue and adorned with an ornate antique gold knob at its center beckons those passing by.
“Where’s here?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He leads us closer and I finally notice the placard on the door face in dire need of a polish. The tiny inscription says,
Mullins Book Collectors
est. 1973
My heart clenches at the memory.
Stepping inside is like stepping into your grandparents living room.
Worn velvet couches and settees of all different colors and sizes fill the gaps between the mismatched shelves. The lack of natural light is made up for with the abundance of floor lamps and overhead lights controlled by the delicate chains that float mere inches above our heads. The aisles created by the strategic placement of shelves leaves room for not much more than a single person to pass through at a time.
The whole place smells of paper and binding. It’s divine.
“Isn’t it great?” Connor whispers into my ear, my expression awestruck as we tread lightly into the quiet space.
“This is beautiful.” I look around, taking in the stillness. “Are they even open?”
“I’m here, I’m here,” a gruff voice comes from the back and an elderly man, no younger than eighty, steps around the corner. Shoulders hunched, he wears a knit sweater-vest over a checkered collared shirt. A pair of black rimmed bifocals hang around his neck by a gold chain.
“Well, I’ll be. Connor, is that you?” the man asks.
