Chapter 16
My heart is still racing when the elevator jolts to a stop.
The sudden silence hums between us, thick and electric. I stare at him, stunned that he’s here—that he followed me.
“Cole,” I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper. “What are you doing?”
He takes a step closer, closing the distance between us until I can feel the warmth of him. His hand slides up, fingers threading gently into my hair as he cradles my face in his palms. The calluses on his hands are rough and familiar.
The moment his thumb brushes against my cheek, I swear my knees forget how to work.
I melt.
He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at me with that quiet, stormy intensity that’s always unraveled me. His eyes search mine, and for once, I can’t read him.
“I thought all this ended on December 31st,” I whisper.
“It doesn’t have to,” he says, voice low and steady. “I don’t want it to.”
My breath catches. “Cole—”
He shakes his head, eyes never leaving mine. “This started out as something fake—for both of us. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling that way. I don’t even know when it happened. All I know is I’ve felt more with you in the last month than I have about anything in my entire life.”
The elevator feels impossibly small now. Every word he says presses closer, filling the air between us until there’s no room for doubt.
He keeps going, voice rough but certain. “If you’d give me the chance, I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy, Frankie. Every damn day. Because you’re it for me. You always were.”
Tears prick at my eyes.
I glance down and see the red scarf I made him tucked beneath his jacket. It’s looped around his neck, worn and warm, and for a heartbeat, the whole world feels right again.
I look back up into those blue-gray eyes—the ones that always see straight through me—and step closer until I can feel his breath against my lips.
Then I pull him down and kiss him.
The kiss is deep, unhurried, and full of everything we’ve both been too afraid to say out loud. All the longing, all the laughter, all the love that’s been growing between us since the day I showed up at the diner—it’s all there, blazing between us.
When we finally break apart, I press my forehead against his and whisper, “I love you, Mr. Whitaker.”
He smiles against my lips, that slow, crooked grin that undoes me every time.
“I loved you first, Mrs. Whitaker,” he murmurs.
He kisses me once more—soft and sure—then reaches for my hand. “Let’s go home.”
And this time, I know exactly where home is.