Chapter Twenty
Lily
M y skin is still itchy from the Regency-era costume I wore last week, which, in retrospect, was probably quite dusty. At least, that’s the excuse I give myself to explain why I keep fidgeting in the car and avoiding eye contact with the man driving it. I keep telling myself that the racing of my heart and the swooping sensation in my stomach have nothing to do with Graham and the memories of his face so close to mine while we danced, proving that while the night was a dream, the outfit sure wasn’t.
That evening, I leaned into the feelings and the romance of it all. Under the dim and moody lighting, it wasn’t hard to admit to myself that my feelings for Graham had deepened despite our time apart. When he held me close as we waltzed across the floor, it seemed as if, perhaps, he was feeling what I was too, just a little.
Acknowledging my feelings also ripped open a new wound—one that I’m not sure how to mend. (The unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach may also be the punch I managed to drink that night. I still don’t know what was in it, even days later.)
The Regency Ball was disorienting, that’s all. I see why women used to faint all the time. The influence of the music, the food, the dancing, and the men in great coats—they can change a girl. And knowing what Graham looks like in a cravat has now made this feeling of misplaced faith in what we could be stick like glue to my hands and my heart.
My discombobulation has nothing to do with the man that I once loved and lost choosing to linger beside me the entire night. Graham and I were in sync just like before until we nearly kissed under the twinkling lights of the dance floor. I could both see and sense the emotion breaking through his usually calm demeanor. I don’t blame him for leaving. And now, we’re stuck with each other once again.
“Don’t worry. It’s vegan,” Graham breaks the silence abruptly, distracting me from my thoughts.
“I’m sorry?”
“The seats. You keep rubbing the dashboard like it will grant you three wishes, but you’re unsure if you should accept it. I thought I would put your mind at ease and let you know it’s synthetic leather.”
“Why would you . . .?” It makes sense that Graham is conscious that I’m a vegetarian. I’m not vegan but avoid materials like real leather. He once joked that I fit right in with the LA crowd, but I never expected him to remember such a detail. I try not to listen to the little murmurings in my heart that whisper he bought the car for us. “How long have you had this car?”
With his hand on the shifter (because of course he can drive a stick shift), he risks a glance over at me when we’re stopped at the light. Birch Borough doesn’t have many stoplights, mostly stop signs, and this is the last pause before we cruise out of town.
“Two years . . . about.”
“I see.”
He nods, enough said between us that we both know he purchased it after our fallout. Something in my chest aches a bit at the idea that he has lived for a time without me. It doesn’t seem right. After we discovered each other’s existence, it seems incredibly unjust to have spent any time apart, even in light of our mistakes or the lingering reality of what could’ve been.
Add to that sadness the awkward truth that poured out of me at the boxing studio. I don’t know what came over me. I blame the confined space and lack of oxygen. And the endorphins brought on by getting into the ring to spar with Graham. Maybe I was dehydrated. All I know now is that my nerves are frayed, and having to spend the evening with Graham isn’t helping. My nerves feel like live wires ready to blow the circuit breaker of my fears. He called me earlier to ask for my help on a wedding-related duty. Apparently, Sparrow asked us to help her with a last-minute wedding task that couldn’t be put off any longer. As the maid of honor, I’m not about to renege on my duties just because I have uncomfortable feelings for the best man.
So, I pretend to be fascinated by his car, just to avoid having to make actual conversation for a little bit longer. Graham’s car is what dreams are made of. The seats feel like literal flower petals. They’re so soft and smooth. It’s a weird description for a car, but accurate .
“Ugh, this car positively purrs,” I exclaim.
Graham lets out a laugh. “Don’t tell A-cat-pella that.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
His hands clench the shifter, deftly switching gears. Suddenly, I’m rethinking the calendar idea Gladys set aside for firemen this year. Let’s try devastatingly attractive guys driving cars instead. Maybe it will add some balance back into the world from all those car selfies on the “those that must not be named” dating apps. Actually, I’m not sure that the unattached hearts in our poor town could take the stimulation if the glimpse I have now is any indication of the effect such photos could have on viewers. They may be interested in more than the days of the week.
Discreetly, I study Graham’s profile. The beard is bearding today. His hair swoops perfectly away from his forehead. He’s perfectly groomed in a blue suit that echoes the color of his eyes, the picture-perfect model of a man he’s always been. That’s one thing about Graham. He was perfect then, and he’s perfect now. The ache in my chest intensifies.
“Did you find a plus-one?” I cringe immediately after blurting out the question. I don’t know why I asked. I don’t really want to know.
“No.”
“Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“Uh, nothing.” Which isn’t true. Thinking about Graham choosing someone besides me in my town to take as a date to the wedding is positively maddening. I don’t know how I’ll ever look at the woman the same after he picks one. As much as I love them, something in me hopes it’s not Ivy or Grey. Because their goodness would be proof that I’m not the person who is best for Graham. Besides, seeing them together would be a whole carnival of awkwardness. I need to change the subject before I burst. “So, where are we going exactly?”
“We’re going to an estate a few towns over. There’s a wildflower field there and—”
“And you’re looking for potential photo opportunities.”
He nods, glancing at me briefly, the barely setting sun hitting his eyes in a way that brings out the golden tints in their blue depths more than any other lighting. The man is made for the golden hour. I’ve never forgotten his eyes, but it’s like I’m seeing them again for the first time.
“Rafe and Sparrow haven’t seen each other much lately—well, not as much as they’d like,” he says with a grin. “So, I volunteered us.”
I nod. He doesn’t comment, even though he didn’t see my response. The weight of what could have been tries to overwhelm me. Being with Graham feels like the cheerfulness of tulips poking through the ground despite a cloudy sky full of rain overhead. The truth is, even though he is the brightness and beauty I’ve been missing in my life, I know that hope is fragile and easily crushed.
Graham continues, filling the silence. “The estate’s owners, the Campbells, have lived here for generations. It’s rumored that in the 1940s, or maybe ’50s—I can’t remember now, to be honest—anyway, the newlywed groom planted wildflowers for his bride in honor of their wedding day. He said he wanted her to see their love blossom every spring.”
“That’s nice.”
Graham’s charming grin in my direction catches me off guard. “I’m not sure how true it is, given how people make up stories all the time. Liam mentioned it to me, and since he’s pretty much the town historian, given his family’s history here, you’ll have to ask him for the full story. But yeah, it’s a nice thought.”
“I will.”
He’s so handsome, his hands resting easily on the steering wheel and gear shift, the sun shining through the windshield and bringing out the golden highlights of his hair, that I can’t help but smile in return.
We drive in silence the rest of the way. When we arrive at the estate, Graham steps out of the car and rushes toward my door, but I step out before he can reach me. He takes a few steps forward then turns back to me. His arm swings out behind him as if it is for me to take before thinking better of it. He clears his throat and slides his hand into his pocket so seamlessly that I almost think I misinterpreted it. But then I catch the sudden hint of color in his cheeks and the tightness in his throat. Inwardly, I can’t help but feel pleased that I know all the nervous tics he does when he’s uncomfortable.
We follow the signs around the property that point to Wildflower Lane . It is actually a field, and as we walk together in the idyllic setting, my nerves grow more than I’d care to admit. After avoiding the most uncomfortable topics in the car, I feel them sprouting into weeds between us. We have so much to discuss, and I wonder how long he is going to let me keep avoiding it. Graham and I still haven’t brought all the truth to light.
“I was told just to take a look when I called. Do you think we need to meet anyone?” Graham asks. His voice echoes behind him, carried on the wind.
It rushes past my ears but no more so than my heartbeat, which has picked up its pace since we arrived. Something about the crystal blue sky and the white fluffy clouds, a light jacket on after a harsh winter, and the man in front of me, who is leading the way as if he’s walked this path a dozen times and not like this is his first time wandering over it, sends my heart soaring.
His dress pants now have the slightest bit of dirt starting to power up the hems. The sight makes me like him even more. He’d rather be himself and dirty his clothes than dress down and not feel as comfortable as we trek through the brush toward our destination.
I’m nearly about to attempt a text to Sparrow to be sure this is truly what she wants for photos filled with wedding bliss when we round a grove of trees and reach a clearing.
My breath breaks its rhythm as I discover the most gorgeous field I’ve ever seen in person. It’s nothing fancy. It truly is a field, with trees around the edges and a patch of wildflowers the size of half a football field in the middle. The patch of grass we’re standing on walks right up to a wall of flowers. There is a small alcove just big enough for people to stand in while the earth looks like an upside-down smile.
I don’t know how it is possible I’ve never been here before. I’ve lived nearby my whole life. At first glance, the flowers appear to be mostly yellow. But when you look closer at them, you begin to see that the colors woven throughout are rich shades of pink and red, purple and blue, with even some hints of white. It’s stunning. But the meadow is not Sparrow’s aesthetic.
“Huh,” I muse, walking toward the little alcove in the flowers, trying to immerse myself in as much of this experience as possible .
Graham follows me—his presence not unwelcome—and when I’m close enough, I lean over to catch the sweet scent of wildness meeting beauty.
“As much as I’m loving this scene that would surely thrill the legendary Bob Ross, this isn’t our friends’ vibe,” I remark.
“No, it’s more . . .” Graham doesn’t say it, but we both know the end of that sentence. It’s more us .
When I turn toward Graham, his eyes are closed, his face tipped up to the sun. The wind blows the top of his hair in a mesmerizing pattern, spinning some gilded threads throughout the light brown. As much as I miss the sight of his blue eyes, it’s at this moment that I see Graham not as he is now but as he could be. He and I.
Maybe it’s the dark grey dress pants and the white button-up shirt he’s wearing, rolled up at the elbows and perfectly tailored, but my throat starts to close at the mental image of Graham and me in front of a pastor in the middle of this field. The wind in our hair, nature all around us, hard edges meeting softness.
I feel hesitant, but I move toward him anyway, the feeling that we’re the only two people in the world propelling me forward. My hand reaches out to grab his wrist, which hangs loosely at his side. His eyes flash open. He turns to me immediately with a question in his eyes. Rotating it toward me, he turns up his palm in an invitation. This time, without hesitation, I slide my hand over his and thread our fingers together.
“Lily, what are we doing?” There is a question wrapped all around and in that statement, from the tone of his voice to the look in his eyes .
“I wish I knew.”
He releases a hum of contemplation. “You do know that, as much as it meant to us . . . I’m not Darcy. You’re not Lizzie.”
“Then who are we?” I whisper.
“We’re Graham and Lily. We always have been.” He starts to pull away.
I pull him back toward me, refusing to let his hand go now that it’s threaded through mine. “It’s stunning here, and I . . . I want to feel it all.”
His jaw shifts. “What do you want to feel?”
“Everything. You. This.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
I wince a little at his words because he’s right. If someone could win an award for mixed signals, I would be the unequivocal world champion.
“Are we going to talk about it yet?”
I shake my head, unwilling to ruin the memory of this field and this moment with the things that have haunted me. His brow furrows, eyes wandering over my face, reading my features, searching for something I don’t know he’ll find. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He steps a bit closer, the space between us blurring. The edge of his thumb traces the top of my eyebrow and the plane of my cheekbone, sending tingles throughout my face. His thumb lingers near the top of my lips. The weight of it meeting gravity causes it to slide down and caress my bottom lip, parting it from its mate. I’ve never wanted anything more than to be stuck in this moment with him for the rest of my life. A moment frozen in time, where he’s looking at me like he’s remembering what we used to be, and his eyes have picked up a light that could be interpreted as reflecting more than what we’ve been.
“You know what I’ve been wondering?” he says softly, the hand not tied to my own sliding down again. The edge of his thumb now maps a route from my jaw to my neck. He continues until he traces an inch of my collarbone, his hand slowly gliding to wrap around the back of my neck.
“What?” I whisper, my body leaning into his through some invisible force. Or perhaps the years of heartache that are trying to heal compel me toward him.
“I’ve been wondering if you still taste like chocolate.” The intensity of his expression meeting the slight grin pulling at the corners of his mouth tells me he has, indeed, been wondering this.
Of all the good fortune, I actually did eat a chocolate bar before he picked me up. So, I know I won’t disappoint him. That must be why, instead of running away or making a joke, I match his grin. “I think you should find out.”
His eyes darken, their various blue tones meeting vats of dark chocolate as his face hovers over me. My chin tilts up to welcome whatever he’s willing to give me with his kiss. If it’s like anything we’ve shared before, I’m about to be lathered with his affection.
With my free hand, I reach up and cup his face, the delightful feeling of his short beard soft beneath my palm. He used to put on beard oil to make it even more smooth to the touch. When my palm glides across his jawline, I smile because I know this about him. And it hasn’t changed.
“What are you waiting for?” I murmur.
The scent of his skin is already filling my senses, the anticipation of kissing him again almost more than I think I can bear.
“We’ve gotten close to this before. What if this is a dream?” The edge in his voice calls up emotions I’ve pressed down to the surface.
Under the warmth of the sun and amidst the swaying of the wildflowers surrounding us, it’s easy to slip into the hazy, dreamlike quality this moment is creating. Still, I can’t assure him this is real if I’m overwhelmed too. All I know is that I need him. And I don’t want to wake up either.
“Then you better make it a good one,” I whisper.
His breath hitches. I catch a glimpse of his eyes closing before his lips crash into mine. He’s not a man unsure or confused as to how best to love me in this moment. He’s a man who knows exactly how to undo me. He’s determined to figure out if all his theories and past research remain true.
This is what I’ve been missing: a man with the courage to pour out his heart with each press and pull of his lips, with each touch of his hands. He’s not taking. He’s giving. And this is the difference between Graham and every other man I’ve allowed to get close to me. He gives me life with his love and doesn’t wear me thin. When I see him clearly, I don’t question my worth. I don’t feel like I’m too much.
In Graham’s arms, I’m adored exactly as I am, and feeling this truth has me pulling him closer. I’m unable to think clearly, though I still sense the fog of loneliness clearing from my mind. The scratch of his beard across my cheek is a match. It’s a fire warming your bones after being in the rain. It’s lightning coming back to finish what it started.
I run my fingers through his hair. The light groan he makes causes me to melt toward the earth. My muscles relax, my frame taking a break from the pressure to feel strong. He holds me up, not bothered in the least that he’s making me dizzy with his attention.
Graham is all intensity, not taking a second for granted. When he releases our hands to pull me closer, never once pausing his kisses, his fingertips trace the length of my spine, trailing across my dress like a circuit board turning on after a power outage.
I match his energy, my disappointment in myself for letting him go finally taking a backseat to my desire for him to know me again. To remember how much I used to love undoing him too. We shift and move with each other as if we never lost a moment. I slide my hands to wrap around his neck, pulling him even closer. I can’t get enough of him. If I taste like chocolate, he adds a hint of caramel—my second favorite kind of confection.
Minutes or hours pass, and I’m lost in him. We’re wildflowers dancing in the wind, thrown beside each other, trying to thrive. Like seeds that have sprung up and missed the sun, only finally to take their place in the light, we make each other blossom.
When we break apart, breath short and hearts racing, I run the back of my hand over his beard. I flash him a grin and stretch up to press a kiss to his cheek. Graham still hasn’t opened his eyes, so I outline his cheekbone in soft kisses, trailing to the soft spot beneath his ear, until I’m planting kisses down the side of his neck, his skin warm beneath my lips. It’s pure bliss, like wrapping your lips around a ceramic mug full of steaming hot tea.
“Lily,” he says, his voice gravelly and rich with love.
I lean my forehead on his chest to catch my breath. His head comes to rest on my own. One of his hands cradles my head close to him as I turn my cheek to look toward the field of wildflowers and the grass waving in varying shades of green in the wind.
“I know I questioned if this was a dream. But the truth is, I’ve been sleepwalking without you.” His voice hitches, a raspiness in it that wasn’t there before. “Thank you for waking me up.”