Page 67 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

The staff start to drift back to their desks, their well wishes lingering in the air long after they've gone. I flick my gaze over the card, then slip a finger under the seal. It's not just any card—it's one of those fancy ones that feel like they should be kept forever.

Inside, a check flutters out, and I catch it before it can drift away. My eyes widen at the figure etched onto the paper—anumber that zeroes alone can't convey. And there, at the bottom, is Liam's signature, bold and decisive, a promise made tangible.

"Wow," escapes from my lips. I tuck the check back inside the card, my heart thumping in an erratic rhythm against my ribs. This is more than generous; it's a statement, almost a declaration.

From him. Liam.

I tuck the card into my purse, a soft sigh escaping as I do. That's Liam for you—grand gestures hidden behind a veneer of nonchalance. I glance around, half-expecting to see him leaning against his office doorframe with that signature smirk on his face, but he's not there. Strange, considering I could have sworn I saw him lingering by my desk earlier.

Shaking off the odd sense of disappointment, I start to unpack my bag, setting up for another day of work. It's then that I spot something out of place—a gift, tucked away like it's shy of the attention. A curious frown etches on my forehead as I reach for it.

It's clearly a book, wrapped in brown paper that crinkles under my touch and secured with a pale blue ribbon tied neatly in a bow. My fingers tremble slightly as they work to undo the knot, careful not to rip the wrapping.

Flipping over the package, my heart stutters at the sight of Liam's handwriting scrawled across a note stuck to the back. 'Be Gentle,' it reads. Two simple words, yet they send a rush of warmth flooding through me. They're a reminder of his meticulous nature, of the way he handles everything with care—even when his exterior suggests otherwise.

"Be gentle," I murmur to myself, a smile playing on my lips.

With reverent hands, I peel away the paper, revealing a book that looks like it's been cherished by time itself. The hardcover is worn, its corners rounded from years of being held and loved. A faint musty scent rises from it, the kind that only truly ancientpages can produce. Carefully, I open it to the first page, my breath catching in my throat.

Oh my God. He didn’t… did he?

Jane Eyre - First Edition, 1850 - by Charlotte Brontë.

I can’t believe what I’m looking at; it has to be a replica. But there it is, the confirmation of its age and rarity—a first-edition copy of Jane Eyre from 1850. My fingers trace the delicate print as if they could absorb the words straight into my skin.

I gasp, my heart pounding louder than the ticking clock on the wall. This isn't just an old book; it's a piece of history, of literature—priceless in every sense of the word. How did he even find it?

My eyes flicker toward Liam's office again, the door now a barrier between us. He's outdone himself. These books cost fortunes, easily dwarfing the generous down payment he gave me for my new apartment.

For a moment, I cradle the tome like a newborn, feeling the weight of its significance in my hands. To anyone else, this might be a collector's item, a pretty addition to a shelf. But to me, it's a world—a world he's giving me access to.

Tears well up in my eyes, unbidden. With a quick motion, I flick them away, terrified of damaging the precious gift.

This isn't just generosity; this is personal.

I set the book down with utmost care as if the desk might suddenly spring to life and snatch it away from me. My pulse is a staccato rhythm against my wrist, each beat urging me toward Liam's door.

"Here goes nothing," I whisper to myself. With a shaky breath, I knock on the polished wood, waiting for that familiar baritone.

"Come in," comes the voice from the other side, steady and sure.

I push open the door, my palms clammy now. He's standing by the window, silhouetted against the morning skyline, but atthe sound of the door, he turns, and his face lights up with something like... excitement. It's infectious, sending a thrill through my veins.

"Shiloh," he says, and his voice has a warmth that makes my name sound like a caress. "Did you get my gift?"

The words lodge in my throat, thick and unmovable. All I manage is a nod, trying to convey a world of gratitude in a single gesture. My hands are trembling, whether from the emotional weight of the gift or the intensity of his gaze, I can't tell.

"Good." His smile deepens, satisfied, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm glad."

There's a pause, a moment suspended in time where I'm just standing there, lost for words.

Then something snaps inside me, a thread of restraint I hadn't even known was there—the last vestiges of everything I’ve been holding back. In a matter of seconds, I'm around his desk, and my arms are flung around him. His chuckle vibrates against me as he wraps me in an embrace, strong and encompassing. I sink into the hug, letting out a breath.

"Shiloh," he murmurs, his voice muffled by my hair. His fingers skate up and down my back in long, soothing strokes that seep warmth into my bones. "I guess that means you like it."

"I love it," I breathe out, the words coming easier now, wrapped in the safety of his arms.

The scent of his cologne fills my senses, a subtle blend that's become a comforting constant in my daily life. It's rich and understated, just like the man who wears it, and I breathe it in, committing the moment to memory.

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