Page 42 of Captured Love

I shake my head slightly, trying to dislodge that train of thought. This is exactly what got me into trouble last time—letting my mind wander to places it shouldn’t go when it comes to Knox.

The bike slows as he pulls into a small parking lot tucked behind one of the buildings on Main Street. The sudden silence as he kills the engine makes everything feel sharper—the distant murmur of traffic, the faint sound of music drifting from a nearby bar.

“We’re here,” Knox says, resting both feet on the ground.

I blink, glancing around. The back entrances of a few different shops and food spots are visible, but nothing stands out as particularly special.

I unclip my helmet, running a hand through my hair. The time I spent making sure it looked good was probably a waste now. “Where’s ‘here,’ exactly?”

Knox twists slightly, that familiar smirk playing at his lips. “You’ll see.”

He swings off the bike first, steadying it before turning back to me. “Need help?”

I roll my eyes. “I think I can handle it.”

Still, he stays close as I climb off, one hand casually gripping the handlebar like he’s ready to catch me if I mess up. I don’t, but the way his gaze lingers for a second on me as I move sets my nerves buzzing.

I hand my helmet to him, and he locks both his and mine onto the bike.

Then, with a tilt of his head, he motions for me to follow. We end up walking down a small alleyway that opens up onto Main Street. As we turn the corner, I see a storefront that makes my heart do a weird little flutter. It's a combination bookstore and wine bar called “Prosecco & Prose.” I've walked by it numeroustimes but have never gone in, mostly because I feared I'd never leave once I set foot inside.

“No way,” I say as I stare up in amazement.

“Yes way,” Knox responds.

“This place is adorable.” I’m unable to hide the smile creeping onto my face.

Knox stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and shrugs. “Thought it might be your kind of place. Come on.”

He opens the door for me, and a small bell tinkles as we step inside. The warmth is immediate and soothing, like stepping into a hot bath after a long day in the cold. The interior is even more charming than I imagined, with white wooden shelves lined with books and a small bar in the corner that serves wine and cheese plates. Soft jazz music plays in the background, just loud enough to create an ambiance without overpowering conversation.

A woman in her mid-forties with dark, curly hair and glasses perched on the end of her nose greets us from behind the bar. “Welcome to Prosecco & Prose! Can I get you two a table?”

Knox looks at me, raising an eyebrow in question. When I nod, he says, “Yes, please,” and the woman grabs two menus before leading us to a small table near the back of the store.

I take off my coat and drape it over the back of my chair, then sit down and look around the room like a kid in a candy store. Knox watches me, and for once, I don't mind.

“So,” he says as he takes his seat and starts to remove his coat. “Is this acceptable for an outing?”

“It's perfect,” I say, although every thought in my mind is shouting there’s no way in hell this isn’t a date. Instead, I quickly add, “I mean, it's clever. Not what I expected.”

Knox leans back in his chair, a hint of a smug grin playing on his lips. “I'm glad you think so. I figured you'd enjoy a place where you can feed both your book and wine addictions.”

My head jerks back slightly. “How did you even know I loved to read? The wine part I can kind of see given the…ya know, partying.”

He points to his phone but never takes his eyes off me. “You mentioned it in one of your text messages a while ago. Plus, you work in the library so I assumed this wouldn’t be too big of a stretch.”

Touché. “How did you even know about this place?” I ask, genuinely curious. This doesn’t strike me as the sort of venue he would go to.

Knox shrugs, his confidence ever present. “I did some research about places near Crestwood and found it. I used what I thought you might be interested in.”

This new information sits oddly with me. It's easier to categorize Knox when he fits neatly into the box I've put him in: arrogant, bad boy athlete with a one-track mind. Every time he shows another layer, it throws me off balance.

The woman from behind the bar returns and says, “Can I start you with anything to drink?”

Knox looks to me, and I bite my lip, hesitating. If this were truly just two friends hanging out, there'd be no harm in a glass of wine. But if it's something more...

“Sangria for me,” I say, breaking my internal tug-of-war.

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