Chapter 16
The Kiss That Counts
Beau
Idon’t know if she hears the real question beneath my words, but when I feel the quiver in her breath, I think she just might.
The seconds hold my future. I feel suspended in the same charged stillness that follows lightning, right before the sky decides whether to break open or keep everything coiled behind the clouds.
I prepare for a laugh. A deflection. The way she masks discomfort with a flicker of humor.
But she doesn’t react in any of those ways.
She holds herself in the present as still as a deer that’s caught a trace of something unexpected in the air.
She’s not frozen out of fear. Her absolute stillness is because what she’s processing deserves her full attention.
Everything else recedes. All the cheering, the stage lights, the clapping of locals and overzealous couples around us dulls. There’s only Maisie. Eyes a verdant fern green, brighter than any jewel, look up at me. Her lips part as if she’s not sure the words will come, but then I hear them.
“It was all real,” she says. “Every minute. Every word. Every look.”
Her voice has that same wavering catch I’ve heard only once, when she was talking about the wedding that never happened, trying to pretend she didn’t continue to walk with the scars of its impact.
But now, there’s no pretending. This is Maisie stripped of every camera-ready smile, every flirty dodge, every quip meant to protect her heart.
My foot shifts back, instinctively. I’m not retreating, but giving my body the space it needs to take in what my heart has longed for my whole life.
Hearing it out loud does something to me, reminding me of standing too close to an amp when the volume kicks in.
I’m overwhelmed by the sincerity of Maisie’s words and the gravity of them. They change everything.
This is the woman I love, not bolting when I trust her with what matters, not twisting what I offered into something for her benefit. She stays firmly planted with me and for me. She does not run.
Thought short-circuits and reflexes take over. There’s not really distance to close, only a tiny step, but I need the motion. I need to feel the leap from hope to certainty. So I adjust my stance slightly to fill in the backward step of awe I took earlier.
And I kiss her.
This isn’t for the crowd or the contest. I kiss her because I want to.
Because I need to. Because everything inside me feels as though it’s been rushing toward this moment for years, like the chords of a song finally resolving.
My hands hold her face tenderly on each side, cradling the uncontainable joy that is Maisie.
She kisses me back fiercely. Her hands slide up my chest and my arms wrap around her, grounding her as much as she’s grounding me. Her scent rises between us. So familiar now. Comforting. Dizzying.
Our kiss starts everything and ends it, too.
Days of pretending collapse into a truth neither of us has words for.
It’s just us, belonging to each other. Her lips soften as my hand slips into her hair, the other gently tugging on her waist to bring her nearer, and she leans in, choosing me.
It all surges together, the reverberation of everything genuine finally set free.
It isn’t until she pulls back a tiny bit, blinking her eyelashes at me, that the rest of the world barrels in.
Parker and Trina are spinning each other in a dramatic dip off to the side of the stage.
Skye does a little heel kick, squealing something about “true love’s big moment.
” The Over-actors are clapping as if they’ve just witnessed a fairytale proposal, and Peaches sits regally beside the punch table, a flower tucked behind one ear, tail thumping as if she’s known all along how this ends.
Cameras flash and behind me, Reenie yells, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” and Pen shouts, “High-five, Marty. I told you they’d cave!”
Maisie moves her lips just enough to laugh, a dazed sound edged with wonder that melts into a smile. Her hands are still on my chest, and mine haven’t moved from her waist.
“Guess we gave them a show,” she says, voice low and breathless, her words catching slightly on the thrill of it all.
“Not a show,” I murmur.
Her brow lifts.
I lean closer, brushing my forehead against hers.
“You’re not a performance.”
A shiver runs across her shoulders.
“You’re the first thing since I sang with the band that’s felt real. And even though you did ask me to fake date for the town, you never asked me to fake myself.”
Her eyes sparkle, brilliant as fresh snow on a sunny day.
I watch her emotions in them, swirling layers of light through leaves—relief, awe, affection, something deeper I’m not sure I deserve.
She pulls back, just a fraction. We look at each other through the afterglow of this new thing that’s only ours.
And then, right on cue, Sweetpines rushes back, reentering the picture as loud and meddling as expected.
“Brooks,” someone calls from the refreshment table. “Doc! You see that kiss?”
Dr. Brooks, holding a paper plate loaded down with two cinnamon rolls, meanders over, a faded flannel shirt barely peeking out from beneath the lab coat he hasn’t bothered to take off.
“Hard to miss,” he says evenly, though there’s a knowing glint in his eye.
Maisie straightens a little, cheeks flushed. I step instinctively closer beside her, not to shield or stake a claim, but because pride has a posture, and in this moment, I feel it in every inch of me.
Brooks glances at me first, then at her, then back again. “I see someone finally figured out how to treat a case of emotional constipation.”
Maisie laughs, half-snort, half-squeak, and leans into my side. “Is that an actual medical term?”
“Only for the real stubborn cases,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me.
He redirects his gaze, softer now, watching with the satisfaction of someone who saw this ending coming all along. “Truth is, you looked like a man trying not to want something for a long time. But want’s not the problem, son. Hiding from it is.”
I nod, words lodged just below my Adam’s apple.
Brooks lowers his voice a little. “You’ve got a good one here. And from the looks of it, you know that already.”
“I do,” I say, my voice as solid as the salute of a soldier when his commanding officer nears.
Dr. Brooks reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small packet of chamomile tea, of course he does, and presses it into Maisie’s hand.
“For the nerves,” he says. “Or for making it official. Whichever comes first.”
Then he winks, and ambles off before we can thank him.
She turns to me and giggles, the sound as light and airy as bubbles floating up from a fountain. Then her hands slide up to my shoulders and she pulls me into another kiss.
This one is softer. Slower. Not for anyone else. It’s not about proving anything. It’s the next right thing. The natural step forward.
Around us, the festival keeps roaring. Someone starts a chant about “Sweetpines Sweethearts,” and I’m ninety-nine percent sure Team Tune-Up is trying to start a wave.
But none of it matters.
Because I’ve never felt more confident in my life than I do right now, her arms still wrapped around my neck, her lips on mine. The momentum crashes through me, unstoppable, like I’ve already jumped and there’s no turning back.
And in that freefall, one truth rings out: the song wasn’t the finale.
It was just the beginning.
The laughter, music, and dancing of the celebration keeps humming around us, but eventually it starts to ease, tapering at the edges like dusk settling over the square.
Out the window, I see that someone has switched on a strand of warm bulbs looped around the gazebo posts, golden light shining into the evening. I reach for Maisie’s hand, and she laces her fingers with mine, as naturally as thread woven through a loom.
A few couples linger inside the music hall, swaying gently, reluctant to let the party end. Someone near us starts clearing empty cups into a bin. The spotlight has moved on.
Maisie squeezes my hand once and tugs gently.
“Walk with me?” she asks.
We slip out the side door of the hall just past the stairs to the stage, craving a few minutes without the meddling matchmakers of our town swarming around us.
How they love sharing all the reasons they knew we were meant for each other all along!
We follow the curve of the path that winds through Pinecone Park, then slow in the square near the quilt that paired us, each stitched square catching the low light.
Maisie’s fingers brush the edge of our embroidered names.
I follow, tracing the thread with mine, not because I believe in fate, but because I believe in the right now.
The town square still hums with energy, but it’s softened now as people make their way home, as if someone turned the volume down on the whole world.
We sit on a bench inside the gazebo.
“I still can’t believe you sang that in front of everyone,” she whispers, a touch of awe in her voice.
“I meant every word,” I say solemnly. “I meant it before the first chord.”
We sit in a silence we don’t need to fill.
She looks up at me. “So…what happens next? What do we do now that we’ve stopped playing along with the Matchmaking Festival. Now that it’s real?”
I brush my knuckles along her cheek, then cradle her face gently. “Whatever we want.”
She leans in a fraction, a glimmer in her smile, playful, and a little bold. Her mouth curves in that crooked way it does, flirtatious enough to make my pulse pick up. She shifts closer, her grin enough to make me wonder how long she’s been sure.
When I kiss Maisie again, slow and deliberate, I let her know exactly what I want.
Her. Us. No more faking anything.
We’ve crossed that line now, the one where no one else gets to pick the next part but us. Where connection sharpens into intention, and that intention leads us toward the love we stopped pretending we didn’t want.