Chapter 26
The rest of the week passes quickly.
Jacob takes me back to the pub where we met, and we share jeely pieces and order two pints of the same beer we had then. And it’s possible that later, when we come back home, we re-create other parts of that night as well.
Another night, after dinner, he shows me one of the collections of poetry he’ll be teaching from. He spent the day working on the syllabus for this class, and as he flips through the pages, turning to the poem he says is his favorite, he starts reading it out loud.
As if that’s a normal thing to do. As if it’s not devastatingly romantic.
It’s not even a poem about love. Or maybe it is. I’m not sure. All I know is we’re sitting on the couch, my feet in his lap, and I’m hypnotized. By the sound of his voice; by the words on the page; by the way he rests his hand on my shin, absently rubbing it as he reads.
When he’s done, he looks at me, his face bright with wonder. Wasn’t that amazing? he seems to say, and it absolutely was.
“You still haven’t sent me your thesis,” I say, and his hand goes still on my leg.
“I will,” he says. “But not for a little while.”
“Why?”
He hesitates, his eyes soft. Vulnerable. “I’m working on something. And it’s just—If you’re going to read my poetry, I’d like you to read these poems first.”
“The ones for your collection?”
“They might be?” he says, then shakes his head. “I’m not sure yet. They’re not quite ready.”
“Okay.” I lean forward, giving him a quick kiss. “I can’t wait to read them when they are.”
The next day, Jacob and I neglect our work responsibilities and spend a day around Aberdeen.
We look at a couple different parks and find one that we think is perfect for the wedding ceremony.
It’s shaded and filled with natural beauty, but I want to add something to the scene. Something that marks the occasion.
I drag Jacob in and out of several different shops before I find a florist who’s able to execute my vision.
An archway made of greenery, interspersed with small white flowers. It’s bridal, but in an understated sort of way. Something that will blend in with the garden, but stand apart subtly. A place where the two of them can stand and exchange their vows.
“Do you want a bouquet to match?” the florist asks, and I nod at him.
“Yes. We’ll need one. And a boutonniere.” I glance at Jacob. “Two, actually.”
His mouth twists in a frown.
“What?”
“It doesn’t seem fair,” he says. “Shouldn’t you have a bouquet too?”
“No. I don’t need one. It’s only for the bride.”
“She’s right,” the florist chimes in, but Jacob doesn’t appear mollified.
I continue chatting with the florist about logistics and timing and delivery, and Jacob breaks away, looking at different displays in the store.
He returns a few minutes later with a couple sprigs of purple flowers and asks the man if he can buy them. The florist binds them together, and then Jacob presents them to me.
“Heather,” he says. It’s the only explanation he gives as he slips the bundle into my hand.
I twirl the mini bouquet between my fingers, a warm glow spreading through my chest. “Thanks,” I say softly.
And when we leave the store, I stop him in the street. His brows knit in confusion, but I rise on my toes, planting a full kiss on his mouth. He goes still for a second, and then he reciprocates, his hands finding my lower back, pulling me to him.
“I love them,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He leans down, brushing his lips against mine again, and then he takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. “I ordered a second one too. I thought you could pin it on your dress. For the wedding. Not quite a bouquet, but—”
“It’s perfect.”
We walk for a long while, no destination in mind.
“I don’t know what I’ll be wearing for the wedding, though.” I glance at him. “Do you? Are you going to be bagpiping again?”
A wry smile plays at his mouth. “Why? Are you trying to get me back in that kilt?”
I bump him with my shoulder. “I should never have told you about the kilt.”
“Well, we’re on an even playing field.” The pitch of his voice lowers. “Because you know exactly how I feel about your dress.” He pauses. “Why don’t you just wear that one?”
“Again? I mean, I could. I’ve just worn it so much since I’ve been here. It’d be nice to get something new.”
“Should we go look for one? Maybe something purple? To match the flowers?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do it. But we’re going to find something for you too.”
We duck into the first department store we see and take our time wandering around. I find a dress in pale lavender, lighter than the color of the heather, but it’s beautiful and silky, and I can’t resist the feel of it.
“That’s pretty,” Jacob says.
“Yeah? I think I’m going to try it on.” I hang it over my arm and head to the fitting rooms. “So, you didn’t tell me whether you’ll be bagpiping or not.”
He shakes his head. “I asked Maggie, and she said no. I’m fine either way, but I get the sense that she wants this time to feel really different. Quieter.”
I catch sight of a table covered in ties. There are a bunch in blue, but only one in purple. It’s a darker shade than my dress, but I pull it out anyway. “What do you think?” I ask him, looping it around his neck. “Would you wear it?”
“For the wedding?”
He looks down at the dress in my hands. He opens his mouth, then closes it quickly.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Are you worried at all that it’ll look like we’re matching? That we coordinated this or something?”
Oh. I hadn’t really thought about that, what my father and Maggie might think. I don’t want them to know about Jacob and me, mostly because the two of us haven’t really talked about what we’re doing, what we are. And I don’t think I’m ready to have that conversation. Not yet.
“Up to you,” I tell him. “I don’t think they’ll really notice, but if they do, we’re the closest thing they have to a best man and maid of honor. It’s normal for the wedding party to color-coordinate that way.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Okay,” he says, taking the tie from me. “I’ll get it, then.”
He follows me to the fitting room, and I twist over my shoulder to look at him. “You can wait out here. I’ll just be a second.”
“No,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “What if you need help with a zipper?”
I laugh, but that laughter gives way to something else when I notice the dressing room is completely empty.
“You know, now that you mention it, I think I will need help with this dress.”
I reach for his hand, tugging him into the fitting room with me.
He’s buttoned up today. The cardigan with the elbow patches, the waves of his hair neatly tamed. I want to run my fingers through them, shake them all apart.
He follows me inside, closing the door behind us. And then my hands fly up to his neck, pulling him down, pressing my lips to his.
“Here?” he asks, his voice thick with surprise.
My mouths breaks into a smile, and he releases a huff of air.
“You are unreal,” he says. And then he lowers his head, pressing his lips to the curve of my throat.
“In a good way or—”
“A good way,” he murmurs against my skin. “Always in a good way.”
He pulls back, his expression tender. “Arms up,” he says, and it sends a quick thrill through my body. He notices my reaction immediately, his eyes flashing with satisfaction. He knows now what I like, what I want, and when I raise my hands, he peels my T-shirt off.
Then he sinks to his knees, his cool fingers ticklish against my stomach.
I wriggle, and he laughs, a warm puff of breath. “Hold still,” he says, unbuttoning my jeans. I place a hand on his shoulder for balance as I free one leg, then the other.
And when he looks up at me, taking his glasses off with one hand, carefully folding them and setting them on top of my discarded clothes, I lean back against the wall.
I’m vibrating, desperate for him, and without even meaning to, I let a single word fall out of me. “Please.”
He responds immediately, taking two fingers and pulling my underwear to the side, and then, at last, his mouth is on me.
He’s relentless. The way he moves is determined and practiced and confident. He knows exactly what will bring me over the edge. His tongue sweeps in a pattern that builds and builds, and then he switches, circling around me, and my eyes squeeze shut.
I whimper, and his hand squeezes my thigh. Tight. “You have to be quiet,” he tells me, his voice hushed. “Can you do that?”
Our eyes meet. His are bright, his lips glossy, and the sight of it makes my body go lax. This put-together man is completely undone. By me. For me.
I nod, quickly, and his fingers tighten on my skin. “Good,” he says. And then his mouth returns, rewarding me. It only takes a few seconds. I was so close, and now I’m falling, my hand in his hair, holding him against me.
My mouth falls open, but I keep my promise, not making a sound. Until my legs give way, and Jacob is there in front of me, keeping me upright, his tongue sweeping into my mouth.
“Jacob.” I say his name on a sigh, and he absorbs the sound.
“You did so good,” he tells me. “You’re so good.”
And I melt into him, because I remember thinking the same thing about him. The first time we met. And now that I know him, I know the truth of it.
His heart, his mind, all of him. Every inch of him is good, and I tell him so in whispers as he holds me, as I come back to my body, as my pulse returns to its resting state.
I reach for him, but he takes a step back. “Not now,” he says. “Later.” His mouth hooks to the side. “I want to see the dress.”
He helps me into it, and I take the tie from him, trying and failing to do the knot for him.
We laugh, softly, as he pushes my hands away, loosely fixing the tie.
We look in the mirror. His hair is mussed, his tie is crooked, and my dress is only halfway zipped up my back.
“We’re a mess,” I say.
“I know,” he says. He leans down behind me, his chin resting on the top of my head. “I love it.” He turns, pressing a soft kiss to my temple, and it’s perfect. All of it. The two of us. Natural, and good, and right.
We change back into our normal clothes and finish our purchases, but when Jacob asks if we’re ready to go home, I shake my head.
“One last stop,” I say. I pull out my phone, doing a quick search, and even though he asks me where we’re going, I refuse to tell him. “It’s a surprise.”
And it’s worth it, when we stop in front of the store. When his face twists with shock. When we step inside, and I reach up, taking the glasses from his face and pocketing them.
“We’re going to find you frames that fit,” I tell him.
And he laughs, disbelieving, as we look at a variety of frames. Different colors and shapes and sizes.
“I never would have done this on my own,” he says as one of the employees goes to the back to find the exact ones he likes. “Thank you.”
And I smile, taking his hand in mine. Something soft and tender builds in my chest when the employee returns with frames that look identical to the ones Jacob always wears. Except this time, when he puts them on, they don’t pinch at his ears or nose.
They’re new, but exactly who he is.
He grumbles when I pull out my credit card faster than him. “They’re my gift,” I say. “I want to do this.”
His eyes narrow playfully. “Count your days,” he says. “I’m going to find a way to get my revenge.”
But when we get home, I catch him looking in the mirror, adjusting his glasses, his expression open and pleased. “I really like them,” he says when he notices me watching.
I swallow, that same tender, vulnerable sensation forming in my chest. “Good,” I say. “I’m so glad.”
We settle on the couch, eating dinner and watching another episode of Love in the Sun.
Jacob’s hooked now, wanting behind-the-scenes information, now understanding the work that goes on beyond the story on-screen.
He knows which contestants I produced this season, and sometimes he pauses, asking me what questions I asked to elicit a particular response from them.
I don’t think I’ve ever dated anyone who’s been this interested in my work, and I tell him so.
“You enjoy it,” he says simply. “And it’s interesting. What you do.” He waves at the screen. “You’re telling a story here. You’re not on-screen, but you’re making these things happen. You’re bringing these people together.”
He smiles then, wide and certain. “I can’t wait to see what you do with the new show.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I hope it’ll work.”
“It’ll work.” He stretches his legs out, bringing an arm around me, pulling me close, and I settle against him.
Because he’s seen me, he knows me, and it feels hard to believe, but it doesn’t look like he wants to run.