Charles Thornton couldn’t possibly want me. No matter what happens between us today, I have to remember my place. I’m just a person amongst who knows how many others he asked to do something with.
This can’t possibly be real. I’m not going to let this cute little town, or his questionable actions, trick me, otherwise.
7
Charles
I want her. Watching the way her face keeps lighting up, the fact solidifies in my chest. There’s no doubt about it. I wanther.
I can’t go back to watching her on my phone and pretending that I’m okay with never marrying. I want a wife, a family, too. There’s no woman better fitting for the position than Ellie herself.
Our tour of Hope Peak continues past the bakery. While she clings to my side for warmth, we stop at a coffee shop for hot cocoa, a candy store for some chocolate, and now, we’re approaching a bookstore.
Is she still the same bookworm she was in high school? I wonder. The memory of her, curled in a library chair while her brother bitched about our report in the background, completely lost to the world, is one I’ve revisited a thousand times.
“If we get anything here, I’m buying it.” She looks at the bags of chocolate and baked goods in my hand with a scrunched nose. “Seriously, Charles. You’ve spent enough.”
I scoff, the sound coming out more tender than I intended. “This is nothing. It’s fine, I don’t mind.” My voice drops, turning earnest. “Let me spoil you.”
She rewards me with a dark, beautiful flush that spreads from her cheeks down her neck, and that alone is more than enough to pay me back. Instead of putting up a fight, she just nods, a small, surrendering smile playing on her lips.
Entering The Velvet Book, the smell of old paper and binding glue hits me hard. It’s a scent I know too well. It’s similar to the smell of dry legal tomes and endless financial reports. One inhale, and just like that, I’m back in my office, the weight of a thousand decisions pressing down on me.
All it takes is Ellie nudging my side, her eyes wide with delight as she spots a towering shelf of classic literature, to bring me back.
“It’s like a library,” she whispers, her voice full of reverence.
She’s right. It’s quiet, hushed. The only sounds are the hushed whispers of the shoppers and the gentle rustle of pages. We drift away from the main aisle, moving deeper into the maze of shelves. The shop narrows to this corridor of books, the air thick with dust motes dancing in the slanted light.
Right here, we are utterly alone.
She’s trailing her fingers along the spines, a soft smile on her face, and I can’t take my eyes off her. This is it. This is the woman who haunts my best dreams. I see a familiar title a few shelves above her head—The Secret Garden, a book I remember her clutching to her chest for an entire summer.
I reach for it, my intention to hand it to her, to spark that memory. But my movement, in the profound silence, is too sudden. My arm brushes her shoulder.
She jumps, spinning around with a small, startled gasp. The motion brings her flush against me in the narrow space. Her back is to the bookshelf, and I’m caging her in, one hand still braced on the shelf near her head.
We both freeze.
Her eyes, wide and startled, lock with mine. Her lips part, but nothing comes out. Tilting her chin, neither of us rushes to be the first to move.
Have I always towered over her like this? I guess I’ve never gotten this close to her before.
My gaze drops to her mouth.
Fuck.
It’s a silent curse, a surrender. I’m losing control. My head dips, my entire being focused on the nonexistent space between us. I can almost feel the softness of her lips, taste the cocoa and sugar on them before I catch myself.
This is Ellie. I can’t just… take. Not like this, in a dusty corner, startling her. I’m a man who plans, who avoids risk. This feels like the highest-stakes gamble of my life.
I start to pull back, my muscles screaming in protest. My voice is a ragged, apologetic whisper. “Ellie, I—”
But I don’t get to finish.
She sees me retreating, and like instinct takes over, her hand lifts. Her fingers curl into the lapel of my coat, pulling me back down.
It’s all the permission I need.
