CHAPTER NINE

MIA CRUZ

I took a deep breath before stepping out of the storeroom, my hands tightening around the book samples. I had only been in there for a few minutes, but it had been enough to gather myself—or so I thought.

The moment I looked up, my stomach did a ridiculous flip.

Marco was still there.

He leaned casually against one of the bookshelves, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with an amused expression. His dark eyes held a knowing glint, like he could see right through me.

“You sure took your time,” he mused.

I forced a small laugh, shifting the samples in my grip. “Just… making sure I got the right books.”

He hummed as if he didn’t believe me but didn’t push. Instead, he straightened, his gaze settling on me in a way that made my skin prickle.

“So,” he said smoothly, “since I’m already here, how about we grab a coffee? You must have a lot of questions.”

Coffee?

I blinked, caught off guard. He wanted to have coffee with me? The billionaire I barely knew?

My first instinct was to refuse, but something in his expression—something both confident and inviting—made me pause.

“I…” My voice faltered for a second before I finally nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

His lips curled into a satisfied smirk, and before I could change my mind, he stepped closer and held out a hand.

I hesitated for a second before placing my palm in his. His grip was firm, warm, and sent a strange buzz up my arm.

Without another word, he led me outside.

I didn’t need to turn around to know that my mom and Chloe were watching. I could feel their curious stares drilling into my back.

The short walk to Café Curzon was quiet, the air thick with something unspoken. I still wasn’t sure what to make of Marco Valentino. He was charming but intense—like there was always something lurking beneath his polished exterior.

Inside, the café smelled like fresh coffee and vanilla. It was cozy, with warm lighting and soft jazz playing in the background. We picked a table by the window, and before we could settle in, a chubby older lady in a floral-patterned shirt approached us.

“Hi, welcome to Café Curzon! What can I get for you?”

“Iced coffee,” I said.

“Make that two,” Marco added.

The lady smiled and shuffled away, leaving us in a brief silence.

I sipped my water, glancing at him. “So… what’s this about? This isn’t about the company, is it?”

His gaze flickered with amusement. “No, it’s not.” He leaned forward slightly. “I want to purchase some children’s books. Not for the company—this is personal.”

I straightened. “For the orphanage?”

He nodded. “Yes. I want to stock their library, maybe get some extra supplies. I know you already pitched me on it, and I’ve decided to go through with it—but through your bookstore.”

My chest warmed at the thought. “That’s really generous of you,” I said softly.

Marco shrugged. “I like to keep certain things personal. This is one of them.”

I studied him for a moment. There was something in his tone—something unguarded. He wasn’t just doing this for show.

“I can put together a selection for you,” I offered.

“Good. Bring them to my house tomorrow, and we’ll go through everything there.”

I blinked. “Your house?”

He smirked. “Yes. It’ll be easier to sort through them in person.”

My mind raced, but I nodded. “Alright. Just send me the address.”

The waitress returned with our drinks, and I wrapped my hands around my cup, letting the chill ground me.

Marco took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze lingering on me over the rim of his cup. The way his jaw flexed as he drank was distracting, and I had to force myself to look away.

“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured, setting his cup down.

“Tomorrow,” I echoed.

MARCO VALENTINO

She didn’t press me for details about why I wanted to keep the orphanage deal personal, and I appreciated that. Most people would have asked a dozen questions, pried into things that weren’t their business. But Mia? She simply nodded, as if understanding that some things were better left unsaid. It made me look at her differently.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my gaze linger on her.

She was beautiful—striking in a way that wasn’t just about her looks. It was in the way she carried herself, with a quiet confidence and an unshakable sense of purpose. The soft café lighting played with the waves of her blonde hair, the golden strands catching the light each time she shifted. Her fair skin had a warmth to it, a natural glow that only added to the effortless elegance she carried.

Her eyes—deep, expressive—held a curiosity that made me wonder just how much she had already figured out about me. She was watching me closely, as if she could piece together the puzzle of who I was just by observing.

Her lips pursed slightly as she traced the rim of her cup, lost in thought. I found myself following the movement, wondering if she knew how damn distracting she was.

“You have more questions,” I stated, smirking when she blinked at me in surprise.

“I do,” she admitted. Her voice was soft, but there was a curiosity laced within it, something deeper.

Her fingers fidgeted slightly, as if she was debating whether or not to ask, but then she exhaled and went for it.

“That night in Chicago… what really happened?”

The question hit harder than it should have.

For a moment, the sounds of the café faded—the low hum of conversations, the occasional clatter of dishes.

I tensed, just for a second. If she hadn’t been watching so closely, she probably wouldn’t have noticed. But she was watching.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. “I was attacked,” I said simply. “Robbed and left for dead.”

Her eyes widened, and a flash of genuine concern crossed her face. “Oh my God. Marco, that’s—”

“I survived,” I cut in, my voice even. “And the people responsible were dealt with.”

She didn’t miss the way I phrased that.

Her fingers stilled on the cup, and her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it.

“You’re okay now?” she asked softly.

It was such a simple question, but it made something unfamiliar stir in my chest.

I nodded. “I am.”

She studied me, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like someone was actually seeing me. Not the businessman. Not the name. Just me.

She still didn’t push, didn’t demand details.

“Good,” she finally murmured before lifting her drink to her lips.

I watched as she took a sip, my gaze flickering to the way her throat moved, to the way her fingers curled around the cup. She had a grace about her that was completely effortless.

I smirked, deciding to lighten the mood. “Also, you can drop the ‘Mr. Valentino’ thing. Makes me feel old.”

Mia rolled her eyes, but I caught the small smile playing on her lips.

“Noted,” she said, shaking her head slightly.

There it was again—that pull.

I chuckled, finishing the rest of my drink while she did the same.

Tomorrow was going to be interesting.