Page 46 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
“You know about Jace?”
“I saw you with him at the farmers market. I’m happy for you both. Jace is a good man.”
Another long pause.
“And you still want to have dinner? Knowing that?”
“Especially knowing that. Can we talk about it tonight?”
The pause felt eternal. Then: “Okay. Yes. Seven o’clock.”
Relief flooded through me. “Good. I’ll make something you’ll like.”
“How do you know what I’ll like?”
“I’ve been paying attention.”
Another pause, then: “I’ll see you at seven.”
I stood in my empty bookstore holding my phone and trying to sort through what I was feeling. Relief, yes. Nervousness, absolutely. But also certainty. The kind of bone-deep certainty that comes from finally admitting what you want instead of carefully managing expectations.
The afternoon passed in the usual rhythm of customer service and book recommendations, but I felt the anticipation building with each interaction. By the time I locked the front door at five thirty and flipped the sign to “Closed,” I knew exactly what I needed to say.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment above the store and surveyed the space with a critical eye. Books everywhere, obviously. Comfortable furniture chosen for reading rather than impressing guests. Plants clustered near windows. It was very me, which was either good or terrible depending on whether Talia actually liked who I was beneath the patient, careful facade I’d been maintaining.
The kitchen was small but well-equipped. I opened the refrigerator and took inventory, then started prep work for chicken piccata. Simple, classic, the kind of cooking that showed care without trying too hard. Then I tried not to freak out too much that I was cooking dinner for a professional chef in an attempt to try and impress her. Talk about out of my depth.
At six thirty, I showered and changed into dark jeans and a soft gray henley. Barefoot, because shoes in my own home felt ridiculous, and because I wanted Talia to feel comfortable doing the same.
I lit candles on the small dining table, then left them lit. No more hedging. No more carefully managing her expectations. I was courting her, and she deserved to know it. She needed to realise it and then decide if it was something she wanted.
The knock came at seven exactly. I opened the door and had to consciously stop myself from just staring.
She wore a simple cream sweater and dark jeans, her auburn curls loose around her shoulders. But there was something different in her expression tonight. Less guardedness, more openness. Like she’d made some decision and was ready to see it through.
“Hi,” I said, stepping back to let her in.
“Hi.” She entered slowly, taking in my space with careful attention. Her gaze lingered on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the reading chair by the window, the plants. “This is very you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s good. Really good.” She turned back to me, and something in her expression had softened. “It feels safe here. Like your bookstore, but more personal.”
Safe. The word settled in my chest with quiet satisfaction.
“Wine?” I asked, gesturing toward the small dining area where I’d already set out glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
“Please.”
I poured while she drifted toward my bookshelves, running her fingers along spines with reverence. She paused at a worn copy of Rilke’s “Letters to a Young Poet.”
“That was my grandmother’s,” I said, handing her a glass of wine. “She gave it to me when I was sixteen and having an existential crisis about what to do with my life.”
“Did it help?”
“It gave me permission to take my time figuring it out.” I touched the book’s spine gently. “She had this philosophy that the right book at the right time could change your whole trajectory.”
Talia replaced the Rilke carefully. “She was a wonderful woman.”
