Page 165 of Ruin Me Gently

As if this man couldn’t get any prettier.

A flutter kicked up in my stomach—unfair, ridiculous, and completely inappropriate, considering I was still half-asleep and barely functioning.

I swallowed, clearing my throat, and he glanced down.

The second our eyes met, he smiled. “Good morning, sweetheart.” His voice was still rough with sleep, low and scratchy like he hadn’t used it yet.

Oh, fuck me.

“You wear glasses,” I blurted.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Very observant.”

“I’ve never seen you wear them.”

He tipped his head slightly, pushing them up with his knuckle. “They’d have fogged up from the scarf. Plus, I only wear them when I’m reading.”

Oh. That made sense. But also, damn it.

His hand shifted, moving from my shoulder, fingers skimming over my skin until they reached my hair.

“They suit you.”

His lips twitched. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Very professor chic.”

That earned me another quiet chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Should I be embarrassed that I’m being like this right now?

Probably. Definitely. But also… maybe not?

It wasn’t like it was the first time I’d been wrapped up in him. But waking up to him? This was new. Surreal even.

This felt normal. Likewewere normal. Which was, of course, a completely insane thought to have.

I breathed out slowly, trying to ground myself in something other than way my stomach was flipping over itself.

It didn’t work.

How the hell had I gone from being obsessed with a half-covered enigma, to waking up in the lap of a literary reading, devastatingly attractive man who looked like he’d wandered straight out of a dark academia novel?

Get a grip, Lilith.

I blinked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with a yawn. “What are you reading?”

He lifted the book slightly so I could see the cover. Leather bound. Old. Well worn.

I squinted. “Looks pretentious.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s Dante.”

“Okay, yeah. Super pretentious.”

He scoffed. “You work in a bookstore, and that’s your literary criticism?”

“Excuse me, I sell books. I don’t pretend to be an eight-hundred-year-old philosopher.”

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