CHAPTER EIGHT
The scent of old paper and freshly brewed coffee filled the bookstore, wrapping Mia in a familiar comfort. Sunlight streamed through the large glass windows, casting a warm glow over the wooden shelves stacked with stories waiting to be discovered. It was a quiet Saturday morning, the kind she usually cherished.
But not today.
Today, she was on edge.
Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted a row of hardcovers, pretending to be engrossed in her task. She had been doing this all morning—straightening books, reorganizing displays, making small talk with Chloe—all in an effort to ignore the gnawing unease in her stomach.
Because he was coming.
Marco Valentino.
She swallowed hard, sneaking a glance at the clock hanging above the counter. 10:02 AM. He hadn’t given her a specific time, but she knew he would show up whenever he pleased. That was the kind of man he was.
The bell above the door jingled, and her breath caught.
She turned, pulse hammering, only to find an elderly woman stepping inside, smiling warmly as she made her way to the romance section.
Mia exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest.
“Are you okay?” Chloe’s voice broke through her thoughts.
Mia turned to find her best friend watching her with narrowed eyes, arms crossed.
“Fine,” she lied, forcing a small smile.
Chloe didn’t look convinced. “You’ve been weird all morning. And don’t say you’re fine because I know you’re not.”
Mia sighed, leaning against the counter. “It’s just—someone’s coming by today. For business.”
Chloe raised a brow. “Must be serious business if it’s got you this nervous.”
Before Mia could respond, the bell chimed again.
And this time, it was him.
Marco Valentino stepped into the bookstore like he owned the place, his presence immediately shifting the energy in the room. He was dressed in a dark suit, the crisp lines doing nothing to soften the raw power he exuded. The morning light caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
Mia’s throat went dry.
His gaze locked onto hers, unwavering, unreadable.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, slowly, he made his way toward her.
Her body tensed as he stopped a few feet away, his scent—rich, intoxicating—curling around her senses.
“Miss Cruz,” he greeted smoothly, his voice deep and velvety.
Mia straightened, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Mr. Valentino.”
His lips twitched, as if amused by her attempt at formality.
“You run this place?” he asked, glancing around.
She nodded. “My mother manages it, but it belongs to me.”
“Impressive,” he murmured, his dark eyes sweeping over the store before returning to her. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect this.”
“Didn’t expect what?”
He tilted his head slightly. “For you to have built something like this.”
She frowned. “I didn’t build it. My mother did. I just—took over.”
“Still,” he said, watching her carefully. “It suits you.”
Mia wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
Silence stretched between them before he finally broke it.
“Let’s talk.”
She swallowed. “About?”
“Chicago,” he said simply.
Her heart lurched.
Chloe cleared her throat loudly from behind the counter, and Mia nearly jumped. She had forgotten her best friend was still standing there, eyes darting between the two of them with open curiosity.
Marco barely spared Chloe a glance before looking back at Mia. “Are you free?”
She hesitated. “I have work.”
His gaze flicked to Chloe, then back to her. “Take a break.”
Chloe made a noise of approval. “I can handle things here,” she offered, not even trying to hide her interest.
Mia shot her a glare, but Chloe only grinned.
With no other excuse, Mia exhaled and nodded. “Fine. We can talk in the back.”
She turned and led him through the store, past the shelves of neatly arranged books, until they reached the small storage room.
The second Mia shut the door behind them, Marco moved.
A breath. A step.
And suddenly, he was there—closer than he had any right to be.
Mia barely had time to react before her back met the solid wood, Marco’s hands bracing on either side of her. He wasn’t touching her, but his presence alone was suffocating. Overwhelming. The scent of expensive cologne and something purely him filled her senses, making her head spin.
Her pulse pounded as she looked up, meeting his eyes—dark, unreadable, burning with something she couldn’t name.
“I went back,” Marco said, his voice low, rough. “To the inn.”
Mia stilled.
His gaze bore into hers, unrelenting. “But you were gone.”
Her fingers curled at her sides. “I—”
“What was I supposed to think?” he demanded, his voice a quiet, dangerous rasp. “That you just vanished? That I imagined you?”
She swallowed, forcing herself to steady her breath. “I live here. In New Orleans.”
A flicker of something crossed his face.
“I was in Chicago for a conference,” she continued, her voice softer now. “It wasn’t permanent.”
Marco didn’t respond right away.
He just stared at her, dark eyes roaming her face, dropping to her lips, then lower—to the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His gaze was slow, deliberate, like he was committing her to memory.
Mia felt it everywhere.
The way his attention lingered, the way the air between them thickened, the way his presence made the small space feel unbearably intimate.
His hand lifted, fingers brushing just barely—just teasingly—against her jaw. A touch so light it could have been imagined, but her body reacted like it was anything but.
A shiver raced down her spine.
Marco’s lips tilted in the faintest smirk, like he knew. Like he could hear the way her breath hitched, could feel the heat curling low in her stomach.
The bastard.
Finally, he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair, the movement flexing the muscles of his forearm, drawing her unwilling gaze.
“We’re not done with this conversation,” he murmured, his voice softer but no less intense. His fingers ghosted over the doorframe beside her, making her all too aware of how little space still remained between them. “But for now, I’ll play nice.”
He stepped back, the absence of his warmth making her shiver for an entirely different reason.
“I’ll be in touch.”
And then, just like that, he was gone.
Mia didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
Her heart was still hammering, her lips parted on uneven breaths.
Her skin burned where his gaze had lingered, where his fingers had brushed.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but that didn’t help either.
Because behind her eyelids, all she could see was Marco Valentino.
The way he looked at her—like a predator who had just cornered his prey. Like a man who had patience, but only just enough to savor the moment before the inevitable.
His gaze had burned—slow and intense, sweeping over her like he was deciding exactly where to take the first bite.
Like he was going to devour her, piece by agonizing piece, taking his time, making her feel every second of it.
Not just with his eyes.
With his hands. With his mouth. With every inch of him.
A heat unfurled in her stomach, curling lower, making her press her thighs together as if that could stop the slow, traitorous ache spreading through her body.
Damn him.
She sucked in a shaky breath, forcing her eyes open, forcing herself back to reality.
But even then, she swore she could still feel him.
Lingering in the air. In the ghost of his touch. In the way he’d looked at her like she was nothing more than a slab of meat—one he fully intended to sink his teeth into.