Elias Varner didn’t believe in romance.

Love—if it even existed—was just a series of chemical reactions, a fleeting thing wrapped in flowery prose and exaggerated promises. He’d seen too many dramatic confessions, too many starry-eyed lovers destined for heartbreak. He certainly didn’t need to waste time wading through manuscripts filled with longing gazes and passionate monologues.

And yet, here he was, editing another one of your novels.

He told himself it was just a job. That the publishing house assigned him to your books because of his brutal honesty—his ability to cut through sentimentality and make a romance novel tolerable. But he knew better.

The truth was, he had chosen this.

He had chosen you.

He still remembered the first manuscript of yours he read, scowling at the lovesick dialogue, filling the margins with notes that ranged from skeptical to unimpressed. He expected another insufferable author who would fight him over every change.

Instead, you had laughed.

At first, your hopeless romanticism irritated him—your belief in destined lovers and stolen kisses felt absurd. Yet, the more he read, the more he sought them out. Not because he believed, but because he wanted to understand why you did. Somewhere along the way, his sharp criticisms softened. He still rolled his eyes at grand confessions, but his margin notes had changed.

“This is unrealistic” had become “Wouldn’t it hurt more if they admitted it here?”

And last night, despite himself, he reread your latest book—again.

Which was how he ended up here, bursting into your cluttered office.

“Are they really just going to let each other walk away?” he demanded, gripping your manuscript like it held all the answers.

He told himself he was just making your stories better.

But if that were true, why was he here, searching your face? Why had he spent the night skimming the dedication page—just in case—just in case—

No. It didn’t matter.

Elias didn’t believe in romance.

But somehow, you had made him wonder.