Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Peter
I’m mixing oatmeal into cookie batter when Sophie’s apartment door opens, and she steps inside.
She’s wearing an emerald green dress that ties at her waist and makes her eyes look especially bright, and her hair is up. A few curls have sprung loose, framing her flushed face in a way that makes me wonder if she ran all the way here.
My eyes drop down to her feet. She’s barefoot, her heels dangling from one hand.
“Hey,” I say, heart suddenly hammering inside my chest.
She’s home, and she looks so incredibly beautiful, and tonight, right now, I’m supposed to tell her how I feel.
“You’re home.”
She drops her heels and walks into the kitchen, stopping a few feet away. “What are you doing?”
My cheeks heat the slightest bit. “Oh, um. Just making cookies.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Have you ever made cookies before?”
I look down at my shirt and brush at a smudge of flour along my ribs. “No? But I said I’d make you something sweet, and I found a copycat recipe for the brown sugar oatmeal cookies we always get from Cookie’s Coffee House, so I thought I’d give it a try.”
Sophie bites her lip as she walks closer. I’ve never seen this look in her eyes before—a hunger that makes my throat go dry and my blood run hot in my veins. I drop the spatula into the bowl of cookie dough and turn just in time for her to wrap her arms around my waist. She presses herself against me, cheek against my chest, hands clasped at my back.
My arms drop around her shoulders, hesitantly at first because I have no idea what’s happening right now. But then she breathes out a sigh, her body melting against mine.
I let out a little chuckle. “Everything okay?” I slide my hands up and down her back, the silk of her dress soft under my palms.
“Just glad to be home,” she says. She leans back and looks up at me, but she keeps her hands clasped. We’ve never stood like this before, holding each other like we’re in no rush to let go. This is more than just an embrace, more than a hug that has a beginning and an end. This is so much more intentional. Like we’re here, and we’re choosing to stay here, to stay close.
Sophie looks over at the counter where containers of sugar and flour and baking soda sit clustered around the bowl of cookie dough. “You did all this for me?” she asks.
“Of course I did,” I say. “And I promise I’ll clean up. I didn’t mean to wreck your kitchen.”
She shakes her head, smiling softly as she says, “I don’t care about the kitchen.” She looks into the bowl. “Is it any good?” She keeps one arm tucked around my waist as she uses the other to dip her hand into the cookie dough. She scoops up a generous chunk and plops it into her mouth.
I suck in a breath, suddenly nervous that it’s terrible and she’s going to start gagging any second, but then she closes her eyes and lets out a low noise of pleasure as she licks a bit of cookie dough off her pointer finger. “Oh my gosh, that’s delicious,” she says. “Did you actually brown the butter?”
“That’s what the recipe said to do,” I say. “Is it really good?”
She nods and helps herself to another bite. “Willa would be so proud. Here,” she says, dipping her finger in the bowl one more time. “You try.” She holds her finger up to my mouth.
Eyes locked on hers, I open my mouth and close my lips over her finger before she pulls her hand away.
The cookie dough really is delicious, but I’m too focused on the heat simmering in Sophie’s eyes to notice.
Without breaking eye contact, she slides her hands up to my chest, her body fully tucked into the circle of my arms. “Peter, can I…” She closes her eyes for a moment, taking a shaky breath before she lifts her gaze back to meet mine. “Can I try something?”
I lick my lips. “Of course.”
She bites her lip. “Don’t freak out, okay?” she whispers. Then she lifts a hand to my cheek, pushes up on her toes and presses her lips to mine.
I feel the kiss—the softness of her lips, the featherlight touch of her hand sliding over my jawline. But shock keeps me from truly reacting, from kissing her back like I have dreamed of kissing her more times than I can count.
My feet are frozen, my hands gripping her back like she’s the only thing anchoring me to this earth, but my lips aren’t moving.
Why aren’t my lips moving?
Sophie breaks the kiss and leans back. “Was that…” She lifts a hand to her face and covers her eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.”
No. No! This isn’t how this moment was supposed to go.
“Why would you say that?” I say, my voice breathy but somehow still scratchy, cracking on the last word. I clear my throat, frustration with myself quickly growing.
“Because you didn’t—” Her words cut off as she takes a step back, my arms falling away from her waist. “Oh, gosh,” she says, hand still pressed to her eyes. “Did I ruin things? I was so afraid it would ruin our friendship. But I just thought—but if you didn’t—” She winces. “You know what? Maybe I’m just tired? Exhausted from all the dating?” She lifts her free hand so now, both are pressed against her face, her shoulders hunched like she wants to hide not just from me, but from herself, too.
I have to fix this.
For years I’ve wanted to tell her how I feel, to show her how good this could be. I had the opportunity once before, and I blew it. I won’t make the same mistake again.
Finally breaking out of my shock-fueled stupor, I step forward and gently wrap my hands around her wrists. “Sophie,” I say gently. “Look at me.”
She lets me tug her wrists down and slowly opens her eyes.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I say.
She bites her lip. “Then why didn’t you kiss me back?”
I slip my hand around her waist and tug her against me, then spin us around so her back is pressed against the refrigerator.
She lets out a little gasp at the impact, her eyes darkening as I lift my free hand and lean it against the fridge just beside her head. “When you’ve dreamed of kissing someone for such a long time, when it finally happens, it takes a moment for the shock to wear off.”
Her eyes widen the slightest bit. “Wait. A long time? You’ve?—”
I cut off her words with a kiss. “Can we please talk about this later?” I ask, mouth hovering just above hers.
“Mm,” she says as her hands fist the fabric of my t-shirt. “Yes, please…”
I press my mouth to hers again, and this time, I kiss her with every ounce of feeling in my body. With every pent-up desire, every yearning I’ve kept dormant for years. I am a master at suppressing my feelings for Sophie, but I unleash all of them now, infusing every kiss, every touch, with just how much she matters, how much she means to me.
Her hands lift to my face, palms grazing over my unshaven jaw. I’m not sure why I didn’t shave this morning—maybe because my routine was off with racquetball and hiding from Sophie—and I start to feel self-conscious about it, but then Sophie smiles against my lips.
“I like you with a little bit of scruff,” she says, her voice low and sexy.
I let out a low groan as I deepen the kiss, pulling her closer, closer , until her air is my air, her body an extension of mine. We move together, touching, shifting this way and that, kissing again and again as we catalog each other in this new way.
I know so many things about Sophie. But I’ve never known this. The way her mouth tastes against mine. The way goosebumps erupt down her arms when I graze my fingers over the skin just behind her ear.
“Peter,” Sophie says, her voice breathless as I press a line of kisses across her jawline.
“Hmm?”
“We’re kissing.”
I breathe out a chuckle. It’s a very Sophie observation to make. “We are,” I murmur against her skin. I lean back, palm shifting to Sophie’s cheek. “How are you feeling about that?”
She leans into my touch, eyes falling closed as she smiles softly. “I’m feeling like it’s a really good idea.” She runs her hands up my arms, tucking them under the sleeves of my t-shirt. She curves her fingers around my biceps, making my muscles twitch. “When I left the restaurant tonight, all I wanted was to be with you. All week long, all these other dates, I just kept thinking things would be so much better if I were on a date with you instead. So when you told me to come home, I left. Right then. I paid for dinner, then I pulled off my heels and ran home barefoot.”
She tugs me down, finding my mouth again, and kisses me with a tenderness that eclipses the intensity from moments before. Her touch is a brand on my skin, and I’m not sure I can ever go back to a day when I don’t belong to her. I’m feeling too much, too fast, but we’ve been building to this for so long, I have no idea how to rein in my emotions. I know Sophie well enough to recognize that at some point, even if she isn’t afraid in this precise moment, her fear will catch up with her, but I don’t want her to freak out over this, and I can’t stop worrying that she will.
“How long, Peter?” she asks. “How long have you wanted this?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It just matters that we’re here now.”
She tugs on my shirt. “Tell me.”
I breathe out a sigh. “Years, Soph. Since high school.”
She closes her eyes, lifting her hands up to cradle my face. She pulls me down for yet another kiss. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks when she pulls back, but she doesn’t move her hands away. She holds me close, looking directly into my eyes.
I shrug. “Because I was scared. Or you were seeing someone else. Or we were living apart in college. The timing never really worked out.” I lift my hands and place them over hers, pulling her hand away so I can press a kiss to her palm. “I was going to tell you tonight. I couldn’t bear the thought of watching you go on one more date without saying something.”
She takes a slow, deep breath, then tucks herself against my chest, her head resting on my chest. “Are you still scared?” she asks, voice soft.
“Maybe a little,” I say. “But I trust this. I want this.”
She’s quiet for a long time, but I can feel her body tensing, her body language shifting, like she’s curling in on herself. I breathe steadily. I knew this would happen. That she would eventually panic.
I just have to convince her I’m not going anywhere. That she isn’t going to lose me. That our relationship can still be what it was before. Now, it can just be more too.
“Peter, my relationships don’t work,” Sophie says. “We know this about me.”
“They haven’t worked in the past,” I say gently. “But maybe that’s because you were never with the right guy. I’m in this for life, Soph. We really only need one relationship to work, right? Why not this one?”
“Because I’ll die if I hurt you. If it doesn’t work out, and I—” Her words cut off as her eyes widen. “Wait. We just need to check.” She leans back, stepping out of my embrace, and grabs my hand. “Come onto the roof with me.”
My heart sinks.
I should have expected the question. Sophie doesn’t want to trust herself. She wants proof we’re meant to be together.
I squeeze her fingers. “Sophie,” I say as gently as I can, “I’m not going onto the roof with you.”
Her brow furrows. “Why not?”
I step away from her, moving back to the bowl of cookie dough. I shift the flour container to the right, then line the brown sugar up beside it, if only to have something to do with my hands. I just need a moment to calm my nerves, to say what I need to say in a way that isn’t going to ruin what’s happening between us.
Finally, when I feel a little more in control, I turn and lean against the counter behind me, arms folded across my chest. “Because I don’t need a flower to tell me how I feel.”
She scoffs. “That’s not what it does.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask. “If we go up there and the flower doesn’t bloom, what will you say about what just happened? That it was a mistake? Crazy hormones taking over?”
“I wouldn’t…” she says, but her words trail off, and I know she’s considering, asking herself if that is what she would do.
“But…Peter, what if that is what happened?” she finally asks. “What if we try this, and six months down the road, we realize we aren’t going to make it? Relationships end all the time. People get hurt all the time. And I don’t want to hurt you. More than anyone else in this world, I don’t want to ever be the person who causes you pain.” She moves toward me, reaching out like she’s going to touch me, but then her arms drop, and she wraps them around her midsection. “If the flower doesn’t bloom, we can acknowledge that this was one amazing make out, but we’ll be better off going back to being friends.”
My jaw tightens. “Please don’t say that,” I say. “Don’t trivialize what just happened by suggesting we could ever go back to only being friends.”
She sucks in a breath, and I realize too late it was the absolute wrong thing to say. In Sophie’s experience, relationships don’t work out. Men leave. She’s seen it with her mom over and over again. And it’s made her live on the defensive, protecting herself, shutting people out before they can ever get close enough to hurt her.
But I snuck in on the sly. Our friendship created an opportunity for us to get close without the threat of our relationship ending. She says she doesn’t want to hurt me, and I believe her. I know she’d never do anything to cause me pain.
But more than that, Sophie doesn’t want to get hurt herself. She doesn’t want to let herself fall, to trust, when she has no idea what it looks like when someone stays.
It’s not a wonder she’s scared.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to imply—we’ll always be friends. Of course we’ll always be friends.”
“You say that, but it doesn’t always work out that way,” Sophie says. “This is why I’ve been trying so hard to get you on the roof. I just wanted to see, to know—” Her words cut off and she looks at me, eyes sharp. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding the roof. You don’t want to know if the flower blooms for us.”
I take a slow, deliberate breath. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to use it as a reason not to give me a chance.”
“So no explosive diarrhea?” she asks, lifting one eyebrow.
I manage a grin. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Honestly, it was worth seeing Archer so uncomfortable when he mentioned it.” She gives her head a little shake. “Still. Aren’t you a little bit curious? Don’t you want to know if the flower thinks we’ll turn into Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway?”
“You’re giving it too much power, Soph,” I say, my tone gentle. “Love is never a guarantee, but I’m not sure it’s supposed to be. It’s an action. If we want to be the Hathaways, still in love when we’re old and gray, then we do the work. We make it happen.”
“But that doesn’t always work. Sometimes people do the work, and they still split up. They still lose each other.”
I shrug. “Is that better or worse than never trying at all?”
“But it’s different with us,” she says, fire drained from her voice. “We’ve been friends for so long, and I don’t want to mess it up.” She looks up, eyes pleading. “Please? If we go up to the garden, we can know for sure. We’ll know if it’s worth the risk of ruining our friendship.”
A part of me wants to say yes. To believe the flower has to bloom because there’s no way we aren’t meant for each other. That’s how sure I am of my feelings.
But Sophie is hanging all her hopes on this.
I can’t risk destroying my chances, and that’s exactly what will happen if the flower doesn’t bloom. She’ll give up.
The trouble is, I might also be ruining my chances by saying no.
“That’s just it, Soph. I already know it’s worth it.”