Chapter 18 #2
“Not exactly. I may have mentioned a girl from college I always regretted not asking out. And I may have said a few times that I told her I’d marry her and it kind of became a joke, but—”
The confession hangs between us in the frigid air. Disbelief forms a wall of ice between what he’s saying and what it would mean.
“And they think that’s me?”
“It is you.” His gaze catches mine, holding steady. Sending a ripple of what feels like warm caramel through me and I fear I might melt on the spot.
“You never asked me out in college.”
“I wanted to. I meant to. But then you were dating that English major guy, and after that, I got drafted to the league, and life happened.”
“So all those jokes about marrying me someday ...” Deep down, past the unnecessary obstacles, objections, and self-sabotage I’ve done to create a safe distance between my heart and a meaningful relationship, I know what I want to hear but am so afraid of what he might say instead.
“Not entirely jokes. Sure, it was a fleeting college crush. I was such a dope back then. I know it came across as arrogant, but there was something about you. The way you weren’t tripping all over yourself for me, how brilliant you were.
I just ... never had the courage to actually ask you out properly. ”
“All this time, I thought it was just a prank that followed me around campus.” I take a step closer to him, frozen slush crunching beneath my boots. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Would it have made a difference? This arrangement has a deadline. Just over another week, and you’ll have completed your research.” His voice is low, uncertain.
I shift from foot to foot. “But I still have so many chapters to write. What if I don’t want—?” I fall silent.
Put me in front of a keyboard and I can create narratives where the characters speak the same love language, where they confess their feelings, and share affection. But in real life, I can’t seem to find the words.
But Fletch must read me, read between the lines of everything I’m not saying, because he goes very still, his eyes darkening. Then he steps forward, closing the remaining distance between us, his hands cradling my face with a tenderness that makes my heart hiccup.
When he kisses me now, it’s different from our kiss at the pond. That was a beginning, a question. This is an answer. Deep and sure and full of promise.
I melt into him, arms wrapping around his neck, the cold forgotten as heat blooms between us.
His lips move against mine with a longing that matches my own, and I realize I’ve been wanting this—with him—even though I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise.
But my heart knows the truth and the way I return the kiss makes me hope that he feels it even if I can’t yet say it.
His fingers thread gently into my hair, and I sigh against his mouth, allowing myself to give in to this moment completely.
There’s a rightness to being in his arms that I’ve never felt before, like finding the missing piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.
A section of a chapter or character quirk I didn’t realize was missing.
When his lips brush across my cheek to press softly against my temple, tears gather in the corners of my eyes—not from sadness, but from an overwhelming sense of coming home. The tenderness in his touch tells me more than words ever could.
“I’ve been wanting to do this more often,” he whispers against my ear, his voice husky.
His breath is warm against my skin, making me shiver despite the heat between us.
I pull back just enough to look into his cocoa-brown eyes, finding them heavy, trained on me, as if he very much likes what he sees.
Me.
“Why haven’t we—you know, again?” I ask, my fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw.
He smiles, that crooked smile that I’ve come to crave. “Afraid.”
“I thought the only thing that scared you was spiders.”
“And what would happen if you didn’t kiss me back,” he admits, pressing his forehead to mine. “Afraid that what I felt was one-sided. I was afraid that I’d ruin whatever chance we had at making this work.”
I brush my lips against his again, soft and sweet. “Me too.”
His pulse slows as we remain together at my confession. “Yeah?”
“Of feeling too much, too soon. Of trusting this to be real.”
As if not wanting to think about that for another second, our lips crash together in a kiss that’s so hungry and so strong that I’m surprised I don’t stagger.
The kiss goes deep, our hearts pound, and my inhales fold into his exhales. I don’t know where he ends and I begin or if it matters anymore. I give him so much, straight from my heart, and I feel it returned tenfold.
When we finally break apart, breathless and dazed, snowflakes clinging to his shoulders, I know with sudden clarity that I’ve been writing the wrong story all along.
This isn’t a marriage of convenience. This isn’t even a second-chance romance.
This is a first chance, finally taken. A beginning, not an ending.
But I’m not sure exactly how to tell that tale.