45. Nick #2
But as I’ve gotten to know this group—and all the unusual ways they met—those worries have fallen away. Gazing at Poppy and Wyatt with their daughter, despite their age difference and all their initial obstacles, I want what they have.
A family of my own. Something I’d never even considered before.
I shake the thought off, knowing it’s far too soon to be thinking that. Instead, I focus on popping the cork on the bottle of champagne even though it’s not chilled, and pouring it into coffee mugs because that’s all I can find.
But the others don’t seem to mind.
“To new beginnings,” Zinnia says, clinking her mug to mine, and everyone cheers.
I clear some boxes off the round wooden table Sylvia left in the kitchen.
Zinnia asked me if I wanted to change it for something new, but I refused.
It’s one of the few things left from her grandmother, scarred from years of use, and it holds memories for Zinnia.
That matters to me. It’s not about erasing Sylvia’s presence altogether; it’s about building our new life on the foundation she laid for us.
A few of us settle in at the table, some leaning against the counter among the boxes, talking and laughing as we eat, and my heart feels so full it could burst. I could never have imagined how opening up to Zinnia would allow in so much more, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
My fingers itch to grab my sketchbook, to capture the moment, this group gathered in the kitchen, but it’s packed away somewhere upstairs.
Instead, I enjoy the conversation, the warmth already filling our new kitchen, knowing this is absolutely where I’m meant to be. In this beautiful old brownstone, with the woman I love.
It’s late when our friends leave. Daisy insists on doing the dishes because the old dishwasher is broken, and it takes a while to locate the dish soap.
Eventually, we wave them goodbye on our stoop, thanking them again for the food, the gifts.
When I turn back to Zinnia, I expect her to yawn, maybe mention bed, but she’s buzzing with energy.
“Right,” she says, and I trail after her again, back up the stairs. “Let’s do your office.”
“Honey…” I hover in the doorway as she runs a hand over the large, antique oak desk I had delivered this morning. “We don’t have to do this now.”
“I want to.” She motions to the bookshelves we had brought over from my place, set against the exposed brick. “These will look so much better when they’re full.”
I sigh, indulging her. “Alright. But after this, I’m taking you to bed.”
She flashes me a naughty grin. “Deal.”
I spend time arranging my desk while Zinnia methodically stacks my bookshelves, somehow remembering the exact way I had them at my apartment. Then she sets my printer on a low table under the window and plugs it in. As she flicks the switch, it whirs to life, spitting out a few pages.
“What’s this?” she asks, pulling the paper from the tray.
I glance over from where I’m lining up fountain pens on my desk. “No idea.”
She studies the pages, her brow furrowed, and that’s when I remember.
Shit.
“Florence?” she asks, tone laced with confusion. “Tickets to Florence?”
I blow out a breath, tugging my glasses off to rub my eyes. Dammit. I’d bought those tickets as a surprise, trying to print them before I packed up at my place, but they never came out. It had completely slipped my mind until now.
I slide my glasses back on, meeting Zinnia’s gaze with a sheepish smile. “They were supposed to be a Christmas present,” I say, crossing to her. “So… Merry early Christmas, I guess.”
“Nick…” Her breath rushes out in disbelief. “You bought us tickets to Florence for Christmas?”
“Yes.” I point to the dates. “But we don’t leave until after Christmas. I figured we’d spend that with Sylvia. And Priya and Marcus,” I add, realizing for the first time how important that is to me.
Zinnia’s eyes well with tears. “I can’t…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and I wonder if I’ve misstepped. She’s only just agreed to stay in the city, to move in together. Was this too much?
“If you don’t want to—”
But I don’t get the rest of the words out because Zinnia crushes her mouth to mine. My hands instinctively move to her hips, drawing her into me. There’s moisture on my face as she kisses me, and I realize she’s crying.
“Fuck, I love you,” she rasps, already taking my glasses off so she can kiss me harder. “What an amazing gift. I can’t wait to go to Italy with you.”
Relief sweeps through me, and I nudge her back onto my desk, my fountain pens scattering onto the rug below.
“You must have seen everything there a hundred times,” she says with a watery laugh, and I shake my head.
“It doesn’t count if I haven’t seen it with you.” I skate my hands over her waist, those curves I’ve memorized and filled a sketchbook with. “I love you more than anything,” I choke out, kissing her neck, inhaling that warm, floral scent of her. The scent of home.
She tugs at my shirt, and I oblige, pulling it over my head to toss it aside.
Then her hands are on me again, soft and warm as they map the contours of my torso, trace the outline of my tattoo.
Heat streaks through me, my cock stiffening at the way she touches me so hungrily.
I’ll never tire of the way this woman wants me.
“Nick,” she whispers, as if she can’t wait a moment longer.
“I know, honey.” My voice comes out shaky, broken and rough with need.
I reach under her skirt, tugging her panties off, and she leans back in anticipation.
Instead of burying myself inside her like I want to, I pause.
My heart beats wildly as I take her in, eyelids heavy and cheeks flushed, spread out and ready on my new desk.
But unlike all the times I wanted her in my office on campus, this time there’s no reason to hesitate.
No fear of lines we shouldn’t cross. No need to hide.
I’m allowed this. Allowed her .
As I thrust inside her, my chest overflows. This woman found her place in this city, this house. With me. She tore down my walls. Opened my heart. Reminded me what it means to be alive.
And it was worth everything.