He laughs. Loudly. Still holding his wine glass, he touches one finger to my lips. “I think the lady reads too much.”

“There’s no such thing as reading too much. That’s like saying someone breathes too much.”

“I have to agree.”

His words surprise me, but not as much as what’s behind the door does.

Oh, my heart.

I can’t help the gasp that leaves my mouth. Oak bookshelves line two of the walls, built around the windows on the outside wall. Those small, square areas let an abundance of natural light into the room, and that light falls on the two huge couches that surround the fireplace right in the middle of it all. The open-brick chimneystack is stunning, offsetting the rich oak perfectly. The deep red rug that sits in the center of the dark brown sofas, peppered with red and cream cushions, is a stunning burst of color.

My hand falls from Carter’s as I step past him and into the room.

Books.

Shelves.

Everywhere.

“This is nothing like the rest of the house,” I breathe. “It’s amazing.”

“It isn’t much,” he says, following me in. “Izzy loves to read, and the first time she came here, she told me in very colorful language that it was sacrilege that I had a house this size without a library.” He shakes his head. “She’s a walking fairytale, my sister. Still, I had this put in. I believe she slept in here for two days the first time she saw it.”

“I don’t blame her.” I run my fingertips along a shelf, and he steps up behind me. Without a word, he takes the wine glass from my hand, and I can’t even thank him I’m so amazed.

He has the classics—all of them. American and British. The stories that are the very core of mystery and romance and adventure. Pure escapism within the pages that are bound by thick, leather covers.

That’s all books are. Escapism borne of wonderfully crafted words that describe far off lands. Sentences that ask and answer within seconds. Paragraphs that slay dragons and ride horses into the midnight sky. Chapters that describe the sensation of pounding hearts and consuming desire, each feeling chronicling the incredible sensation of falling in love.

I run my fingers along the spines of each book, old and new, classic and modern, as I walk the length of the room. The shelves are ceiling high, each one filled and overflowing.

“It’s a Belle library,” I sigh, ducking down to the shelf below.

“A Belle library?” Carter questions, putting both wine glasses on the coffee table.

“In Beauty and the Beast? The ladder?”

“Ohh. That.” He tilts his head to the side. “I guess so.”

“It’s amazing.” I smile. “Good job.”

His eyes are on me for the split second it takes him to cross the room. “I knew it,” he says to me.

“Knew what?” I look up at him, my lips pulling into a small smile.

“You’re an orange waiting to be peeled,” he throws my own words back at me. “And I think I just did it.”

Slowly, I stand, keeping my eyes on him. “I don’t get it.”

“You.” He pushes some hair from my eyes, his fingers lingering on the side of my face. “The night we met, you made it so clear you don’t want commitment. Why?”

“Why don’t you?”

“That’s not the conversation we’re having.”

“We’re not having any conversation.”

“You’re a romantic at heart, aren’t you, Bee? You’re not so different to everyone else.”

“I have no idea where you’re going with this conversation,” I breathe, stepping back. “What does who I am inside have to do with you, Carter? Your aversion to commitment is stronger than mine.”

“I have an aversion to relationships because women tend to look at me and see a meal ticket. They see diamonds and expensive things and flash cars and vacations. I’m not averse to commitment, Bee. I’m simply averse to it with the wrong woman. That doesn’t make a commitment-phobe. That makes me smart.”

“Maybe I’m averse to commitment with the wrong guy. I hardly need someone to depend on and look after me, but I don’t want someone that needs to depend on me.”

“I know what’s inside these pages. I may never have read them, but look.” He pulls one from the shelf. “Pride and Prejudice. Everyone knows how that ends. Eventually the pride and prejudice doesn’t matter and love prevails.” He puts it back on the shelf and pulls out Jane Eyre. “Eventually Jane and Mr. Rochester fall in love.” He replaces that and walks past me to a shelf with more modern books. “Fifty Shades of Grey. Ana and Christian. They fall in love. Cinderella. Rapunzel. All the classic fairytales, Bee. They all end in love and happily ever after.”

“Make your point, Carter, because I don’t see it.”

He pushes the gray book back into its place and walks to me. He stops, right in front of me, towering over me by several inches. “Maybe,” he says, gently touching his hand to the side of my face. “Maybe you’re less about the aversion and more about the dream.”

I push his hand away. “And maybe you have no idea.”

His green eyes are piercing. And they do. Pierce. Right down to my bones, to my very soul; the same soul that’s yelling at me for arguing what I know to be so very true.

I believe in love. True love. Whirlwind, consuming love. I believe it exists for everyone, and I’ll be damned if I’ll settle for anything less.

He’s right.

My aversion to commitment is more about a dream of what could be, more than anything else.

“Ever thought that one day you could be so averse to what’s in front of you that you could skip right over what you want?” Carter asks, closing the distance between us once more. “That could be so wrapped up in perfection that you’ll never appreciate flaws?”

“Okay, you’ve met my mother, and you’ve seen my office. There are flaws all up in that shit,” I respond, snorting. “This… is getting out of hand. Can we just go eat now?”

He shakes his head. “I’m still the cat. I wanna know.”

“Really? You wanna know why I’m holding out for the person that’s right for me?”

“That seems like a pretty apt description of what I wanted to know, actually.”

“Because there are too many people like you in the world, Carter.” I flatten my hands against my stomach and take a deep breath. “Too many people that can manipulate your thoughts and your feelings until you believe everything to be true.”

His smile drops. “That’s what you think I’m doing? You think I’m fucking manipulating you?”

“Do I think that, when I’m done with your restaurant, we’ll honestly never see each other again? Yes. I do. Totally. I know nothing about you, yet you make me feel a way I haven’t in a long time. You make me feel a hundred different ways that I shouldn’t.”

“Elaborate,” he demands, his eyes sparking. “If you think I’m manipulating you, tell me exactly how I make you feel and see how I respond.”

“Wanted,” I say quietly. “You make me feel wanted—and you make me believe that I am, too.”

“That’s because you are,” he growls. “I want you, Bee. Fuck—I want you more than anything. How can you think that isn’t true? It’s taking everything I have not to grab you and show you that’s true.”

“Then do it,” I challenge him, raising my chin. “Right now. Prove it. If you think you’re a fucking romance hero and you really want me, show me.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking me to do,” he warns me in a low voice. “I don’t take this shit lightly, baby. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a user. If I have to show you how much I want you, I’ll be fucking damned if I can take that back.”

“I don’t care,” I return bravely. “I’m not a fucking pushover. I’m not a toy or a doll that can be stashed in a drawer or a cupboard until you’re ready for another play. You just stood in front of me and you told me that you want a woman who doesn’t look at you and see dollar signs. Newsflash, Carter, I don’t see that. I see an asshole, but I see one who makes believe I’m wanted.”