Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
A lonely tear rolls down my cheek. He’s quick to catch it with his thumb, his scent lingering even after his hand is gone—it smells like home.
Everything I’ve shoved down the past couple of weeks starts clawing its way back up.
“What are you doing here?” I fumble the words. His hands come up to rub my arms, calming me down, holding me steady.
“It’s your birthday,” he says as if it wasn’t clear enough from the giant cake sitting behind us. “Where else would I be?”
“London. Taking care of your career,” I counter. “I haven’t heard from you since—”
I stop myself.
I was about to bring up the text. The one where he basically confessed his love to me. Maybe it wasn’t intentional. Maybe he didn’t even know what he was saying.
When I meet his gaze, he’s studying me carefully, almost as if he is reading my mind.
“I think we’re overdue for a conversation,” he says softly. “Will you join me?”
He doesn’t say where, and I don’t care. He’s here. He’s fighting for us.
I nod.
He calls over a waiter—who clearly knows him.
“Would you mind if I borrow a spare tablecloth?”
“Of course, Mr. Harrison,” the waiter says, quick to oblige. He tries to remain composed, but the way he fiddles with the gold ring on his hand gives it away. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Actually, yeah. How about a bottle of champagne for the birthday girl?”
“I’m on it, sir.”
He’s very committed to his job—or maybe to Harrison—because it takes him less than a minute to come back with a folded white tablecloth and a chilled bottle of expensive-looking champagne.
Harrison thanks him—his British accent somehow making it sound even more gracious.
Then, without a word, he grabs my hand and leads us out through the open glass wall onto the terrace.
Before we hit the sand, he kicks off his shoes and peels off his socks, rolling up his black slacks a few inches. Still crouching, he gestures for me to lift my feet up, which I do, and he gently pulls my heels off. His fingers graze my leg as he stands back up, and my breath catches.
We walk all the way to the shore, sneaking glances at each other like we’re seventeen again. The sand is still warm, shaping under my feet with every step, grains clinging to my toes.
When we’re close enough to see the waves crash against the shore but far enough that they won’t reach us, he sets the bottle down and spreads the blanket out like he did during our picnic date.
I sit at the edge, digging my feet into the sand until they’re buried.
He settles next to me, body turned toward mine. The moonlight hits his profile in a magical way, making me question how the hell I’ve managed to survive a month without seeing him.
“There are so many things I need to tell you,” he begins, “and I’m trying to figure out where to start to avoid you running away from me again.”
My stubbornness flares for a split second.
“I didn’t run away,” I mutter.
“Okay,” he agrees, but he’s smirking. “What do you want to know first?”
He’s testing me. Daring me to ask about what he said in his text. I don’t.
“What are you doing here? I read the show was cancelled. I wanted to ask if you were okay, but—”
“So straight to the technical details. I see,” he replies, the smile never leaving his face. “That’s alright. We can get into the life-altering things later.”
I blush, painfully aware that he knows that I read the message where he confessed his love—and hasn’t taken it back since.
“I’m sorry for what happened in London. I was trying so hard to find a way to fly back with you that I lost sight of the path to get there. I focused too much on the result.”
He pauses.
“After you kicked me out, I realized I wasn’t doing things right. At that point, I’d read dozens of scripts with Peter, and nothing stood out. Then, I remembered what we talked about that night, after we finished watching that rom-com—”
“The Holiday,” I interrupt—because who wouldn’t with such a romance classic. We laughed, we cried, and we promised we’d chase our dreams.
Him with directing. Me with photography.
“Yeah, that one. You were right—I’d been looking at the wrong part of the creative process. I was chasing credits instead of stories.”
He runs a hand through his hair, the way he does when he’s trying to slow himself down. “So that Sunday morning when I left, I made a few calls. On Monday I flew out to New York to meet up with Matt Hunt.”
“Matt Hunt?” I ask, confused. “Wasn’t he just premiering a movie?”
“He is. But he’s also starting a new one in a couple of weeks.
He vouched for me and got me a meeting with the producer and writers.
We went through the script, and they liked my input.
The director’s already locked, so I’ll be joining as co-producer.
I’ll shadow the director through the entire process.
Hopefully while that’s happening, I can set up my own production company. ”
He really did it. He listened. He changed his whole trajectory because of one conversation on a couch.
“I took your advice too,” I blurt, surprising both of us. I haven’t told anyone yet.
He raises an eyebrow, part challenge, part tease—because he remembers I can’t do that.
“I gave Jeff my two weeks’ notice. It just didn’t feel right anymore. I didn’t want to build a career that would cost me myself.”
“And,” I add, breath catching, “I made a portfolio and pitched it to a couple of local galleries. I haven’t heard back yet.”
“I have no doubt you will,” he says, without hesitation.
He pops the cork on the champagne bottle, sending it flying several feet. “Let’s drink to that.”
He hands it to me. I take a big gulp—for what’s coming. He does the same.
I feel stupid to notice that the next time I drink, my lips will be where his just were. I pretend that isn’t the reason my pulse jumps.
“What does that mean? You’ll be back and forth?”
“It means I moved back into my home here. Three days ago.”
He lives here now?
My brain lags. One second he’s in New York chasing his dream, and the next he’s here. Full-time.
For me.
I’m overjoyed and terrified at the same time. I want to wrap my arms around him and never let him go. I also kind of want to dive straight into the ocean and scream.
“I told you I’d sort it out. I’m sorry it took this long.”
I shake my head. He moved across the world for me. What is he apologizing for?
My thoughts are scrambled—messy, hot, and impossible to separate.
He sees it, because he continues talking.
“Should we move on to the good stuff?”
I take another swig of champagne.
“You mean you dropping the L-word over text?”
He laughs, full and unfiltered, like there’s nothing holding him back anymore.
Then, he leans in ever so slightly. His mouth still holds that swoon-worthy smirk, but his eyes… they’re serious, full of emotion. I can’t look away.
“You want to call me being madly in love with you the L-word?” he whispers, amused. My eyes widen. My mouth parts. My palms are getting sweaty.
Hearing it out loud sends a shiver through me.
“Don’t look so surprised. I did warn you it might happen. I’m pretty sure it was written all over my face.”
I shake my head. “No. You said not to listen to the press, remember? When the picnic photos came out.”
“I was stupid. I wanted to say it, but I thought you weren’t ready. I didn’t want to scare you off.”
His gaze softens. “But that night at The Anchor, when we were dancing… you looked at me like nothing else mattered. I told myself that had to mean something. So I pressured Peter even more.”
“And then Emily happened.”
He nods, regret flickering behind his eyes.
“I was already a goner for you then,” he says quietly. “I think I have been since you left me these.”
He pulls the notes from his pocket and lays them between us. He kept them—just like I did.
“And I’ve realized, having lost you, that I’ll never be able to love anyone the way I love you.”
I want to say something—something charming or funny, anything—but my throat locks up. My hands tremble slightly, so I curl them into fists against my knees.
They’re only there for a second before he takes them in his, our fingers intertwined. The contact sends electricity through me.
This is everything I’ve been dreaming about.
It’s so… him.
My heart is ready to give out. He’s saying all the right things. He’s doing all the right things. But what happens if he changes his mind? What happens if one day he wakes up and decides this is all just some great speech but nothing else?
It’s like he has a Julia’s overthinking radar installed in his body, because before I can spiral further, he continues.
“I want to spend the rest of my days with you, Julia. I want to take you out on dates. I want to let you pick the movie while I take care of dinner. I want to wake up next to you, whether it’s here or anywhere else. I don’t care. I want to be able to call you my wife.”
If that’s not confirmation enough, I don’t know what is.
“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
He must see my stunned expression, because he chuckles.
“Don’t worry. I’m not asking you to marry me just yet. You’re not ready for that.”
I scoff.
“And you are?”
He holds my gaze. I try not to shrink under it. His voice is steady. Low. Truthful.
“I’ve been ready for quite a while.”
“You’re crazy, Joshua Harrison.”
“Look at you,” he says, leaning back to take a long-dedicated run down. “Of course I’m crazy.”
“Where’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch. When I met you, I was instantly drawn to you. It was strange. I knew nothing about you, and yet, I felt like something inside me had fixed itself. Something I’d been missing my whole life. I don’t need reassurance. I know it’s you.”
He gives me a minute to process everything he’s saying to me. We pass the bottle back and forth, lingering a bit more each time.
“I know I’m being blunt with my feelings,” he adds, “but I don’t want to force you into anything. It’s been almost a month since we last saw each other, and I understand if you don’t the feel the—”
I don’t let him finish.
I launch forward, arms around his neck, fingers in his hair, and lips pressing against his desperately.
He catches me with one arm, the other anchored behind him, holding us up.
We move in perfect sync. Every ounce of need, restrain, want, loose between us.
I move from his lips to his clean-shaven jaw and up to his ear.
“I love you,” I whisper.
He grabs my waist, pulling me over him until he’s sitting up, and I’m straddling him.
“You do?”
“More than you’d believe.”
He brushes my cheek, and for a moment we just breathe each other in. Then I kiss him again. And again. And again. Until we have to come up for air.
“I have something for you,” he says, pulling out a small square box.
Is that—
“It’s for your birthday.”
I open it. A heart-shaped, white gold locket. The one I stopped to admire during one of our first outings in London. The one that looks exactly like the one my mom used to have.
The thin chain holds an extra charm—a small diamond J.
“You went back for it?”
It’s too much. Tears threaten to spill.
He remembered.
“And you added my initial.”
“Yours or mine. Depends on how you look at it,” he adds, cheekily. “I went back the day after to make sure nobody else bought it. Had it personalized and kept it safe ever since, waiting for the perfect moment. Look inside.”
And so I do. It’s empty, except for an inscription on the left side.
I’ll love you till the day I die.
I do the math in my head. He wasn’t lying when he said he’s felt this for a while.
“This was one of our first dates,” I say.
“I know.”
“But it says you—”
“I loved you then already.”
I don’t know what else to say, so instead I join my lips to his once more. Until we’re both lying, limbs tangled up under the stars.
Just a little over three months ago, when we met under this same sky, everything seemed temporary and complicated. If you’d asked me then, I would have told you we wouldn’t make it. I labeled us a fleeting love story in a foreign country.
But tonight, as I lay on his chest, his hand rubbing my leg, and his promise inside the locket—I know we are everything but fleeting.
We are mundane. We are laughter. We are fear. We are beauty.
But most of all, we are forever.
“You know,” I whisper into his neck. “I thought taking that assignment in London was my lifeline. A way to get back into the game. Regain control of my life… and my job.”
He hums, turning to face me.
“Now I realize it was you.” I kiss him again, like I’ll never be able to get enough. “You’ve been my lifeline all along.”