Crossing Lines

Chapter 19 - Mila

"Wow." I walk along the shelves, looking at the countless works displayed in them, from Hemingway to Austen to Poe and many, many more. "These must be worth thousands," I mutter, more to myself than for anyone to hear.

"Oh, yes, they are," Celeste confirms. "That's why only a handful of people get to see them. I saved these books from my parents' heritage, and this man here made sure you got them all for yourself today."

Hayden stands there, leaning against the doorway, his gaze aimed at me. I can't help but smile, using all my energy to keep the tears at bay. The amount of attention he offered me all day becomes more and more surreal with every minute that passes.

"Most of these are originals. Some even signed. My parents were literature lovers through and through. Here, let me show you something." Celeste points toward a different, much-smaller door, which she pushes open with ease. "This is my mother's collection of Charlotte Brontë's work. It's every piece she ever published in original, mint condition."

I stand there, studying this gigantic shelf filled with the works of my favorite author of all time. I don't even dare to touch these books—they just seem so valuable, so rare, so raw.

The heavy smell of old paper and wood fills my senses as I read every title on the back of every book, these treasures in front of me overwhelming me with privilege and gratitude. "How are these originals? Jane Eyre was written in 1847..."

But Celeste just smiles at me, the smile of a wise woman, before she answers my question. "My parents and their parents had a lot of connections. Back then, things worked differently, and people actually valued what they had. They cherished every book they read like they wrote it."

I don't even know what to say to that, believing just how true her words are.

"I'll give you a minute to snoop around. But please, if you want to touch or hold or even read them, come see me first. Okay, dear?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Celeste."

Her retreating footsteps resonate when she walks away and closes the door behind her, but I'm still studying the books in front of me, getting as close to them as I can without touching them.

A slight breeze travels through the room, delivering Hayden's scent right into my atmosphere, and I realize I must've been standing here for a long time without actually acknowledging him. I turn around to find him still leaning against the doorframe, a curious expression on his face while I just stare at him, watching how he scratches the back of his neck.

"I, uh...I hope you like it, I remembered you said something about Brontë and I—"

"Are you kidding?" I interrupt him before he even dares to say something bad about this situation. "Like it? Hayden, this..." My gaze flicks to the books and then back to him as I try to find the right words for this moment. "This is..." And when I look at him at this moment, I'm hit with such a wave of appreciation, of gratitude, of pure and utter joy, that I almost can't breathe. I can't fight the tears anymore at this stage, my mind overwhelmed by this man's attention to detail. "No one has ever done anything like this for me." I sob out the words, and within seconds he's by my side, one hand on my waist while the other brushes over my wet cheek.

"Oh, Mila." His voice is thick with compassion, and it's incredibly hard to swallow the lump in my throat when his thumb circles over my skin, his gaze piercing right into my soul as I lean into his touch. It all gets too much, like my emotions are threatening to steamroll right over me, and I lean forward to rest my head against his chest, listening to his thundering heart beneath my ear.

To my surprise, he doesn't comment on my behavior. Instead, he wraps his arms around my body, his fingers gently skimming over my back as I take deep breaths, tightening my hold on him to try and get a grip.