29

Camille

The overhead lights come on as we walk into Alessio's office.

I take in the antique-looking furniture made of black walnut wood and the glass-paned bookcase to the left that takes up the entire wall.

The desk in the center commands most of the space, and rows of shelves filled with books line the wall behind the padded leather chair.

This office doesn't seem to suit Alessio. It would be more fitting to someone older. Like Leif. Or Jules Verne, judging from the volumes of classic literature on the shelf about adventures to the center of the earth, the moon, and the sea. There's also an ancient-looking pair of golden binoculars sitting on a tripod by the window.

It's all interesting, but I can see that I would have been quite disappointed if I'd succeeded in breaking in.

Alessio places his hand to the small of my back. The contact twists my stomach into more knots, and I wonder what the hell I'm going to do.

This is bad. Very bad. I don't know what to expect or what more to say