Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
One Truth, no Lies
Okay fine, love doesn’t suck
“Higher.”
“Is that better?”
I squirmed. “A little to the left.”
John chuckled. “Like that?”
I groaned. “No, the other left.”
John paused, peering at me from beneath his bushy brows. “You mean right?”
I threw my hands up in exasperation. “I don’t care what you call it, but it isn’t going there.”
John marked the spot on the wall, then hung my framed award above the mantel. It fit perfectly beside his many awards, which I’d made him hang as well.
“You gotta be proud of your achievements!” John smiled at me.
“Look at us,” I said, grinning.
He stepped to my side. “Look at you.” He slapped my butt in a playful way that made me squeal and want to rip his clothes off at the same time.
I slipped my hand into his back pocket, leaning my head against his chest. Who would have thought I’d ever get an Eisner Award for my first-ever graphic novel? Not me.
The title: Caruso 2.0-The Samurai Crew. The cover—A ragtag of misfits with an adorable animal companion, a starburst of explosions on the horizon. In retro '60s font, it read: Written by May Short and Jeremy Parson; beneath their names: Illustrated by Nora Skye.
Haller & Mark had caught wind of my art after the gallery at the shop went online.
Apparently, the publisher had sent me several proposals to collaborate.
I just hadn’t received them. For...reasons.
After Lew’s death and much consideration, the panel decided the legacy would live on in a different medium.
Queequeg lay on his back in front of the fireplace, snoring, his little legs twitching occasionally. Probably dreaming of hunting squirrels.
“Hungry?” John mumbled into my hair. I lifted my head to meet his lips, brushing my mouth softly over his, savoring the slight scratch of his stubble.
“Always.”
He made a warm, throaty sound that melted me from the inside out, then slipped his hand under my butt, lifting me to kiss him fully. I chuckled against his breath, slinging my legs around his hips, letting myself sink into the warmth of the kiss. Instant hunger replaced the humor.
John sat me on the kitchen island we’d bought last week: our first IKEA trip, and no one got dumped.
We should really get an award for that. Slowly, we replaced all things Lew Elliot, dusted off years of old furniture from the attic, and filled this house with our things—though I kept the leather loveseat.
And the hot tub. Which has gotten plenty of use.
A picture of John and his mom now hung next to me and my dad over the mantel.
My paycheck had been enough to buy a fancy drawing table that now sat beside the sofa, overlooking the snow-covered pines and the small lake outside our cottage.
Turns out Mr. Bestselling Author John Kater loved antique shopping, so we spent weekends driving to farmers' markets and vintage stores, finding souvenirs for our little writing retreat. In the evenings, we watched marathons of horror and Meg Ryan movies while John cooked his way through Mom’s recipes.
Vivian had been over with her now fiancée for our official moving in party.
I realised not even ten minutes into the night that beneath that icy exterior lay someone soft and sensitive.
Someone fiercely loyal. We had bonded quickly over our shared love for art and laughed over teenage photos of John she had on her phone.
By the end of that evening she had hugged me tightly, making sure I knew I was now part of that protected circle of hers.
Since then we had had many double dates, and sometimes me and her went to gallery openings on our own. Despite our rocky start, I was happy to have Viv in my life.
With the shop thriving, I had to hire staff, which gave me the freedom to manage things from afar, only popping in once or twice a week.
My social anxiety had a field day. We kept the houseboat in case the city ever called.
And just recently, I’d started outsourcing locations for a second Skye’s in Chicago.
John’s hands slipped under my sweater, over the ink I’d added over the last year. All thoughts of farmers’ markets and dinner disappeared. I could only focus on the heat of John’s body against mine—soft bits to hard bits. Headily familiar and exciting at the same time.
I freed the poor man from his sweater, replacing the fabric with kisses.
His hand slipped up my neck and into my hair, tugging my head back, angling my mouth to his until the edges of my lips became sore.
I loved it. My fingers found their way into the back of his pants, cupping his ass, squeezing once for emphasis.
He laughed, the sound a sizzling vibration that tickled my chest. After all this time, I was still starving for him.
I nibbled on his skin, planting small bites along his collarbone, rocking my hips against his hand.
“Nora,” he breathed into my ear, and my insides turned to a hot pool.
Suddenly, a sharp, screeching noise tore through the room.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling away. That’s when I noticed the smoke around us.
The fire alarm blared, its sound drilling into my eardrums.
I ran to open the windows, letting the cold air rush in. Queequeg hadn’t even stirred. I nudged him with my foot to make sure he was still breathing. He purred in confirmation.
John pulled a sheet of now-burnt mini strudels out of the oven, dropping them into the sink with a hiss.
He swore a string of words better not repeated.
“Ah shucks. I was looking forward to dessert,” I said, hugging him from behind. “I guess you’ll have to do.”
But John seemed more upset by the burnt dessert than was warranted.
“Hey, I don’t care.” I tugged on his arm to turn him around, wrapping my hands around the back of his neck.
“Where were we?” I leaned in to kiss him again, but he gently pushed me away. “What? Oh no, are you tired of me already? Are we over? Is this it?”
John laughed, holding onto both my hands. “There is no chance I’ll be tired of you anytime soon.”
“Good. Then why are you so upset?”
He sighed, grabbed a dishtowel, and wrapped it around one of the strudels. “Would you try this for me?”
I took a step back. “You love me so much that you want me to get food poisoning?” I crossed my arms and gave him a mock stern look.
He placed the strudel on the table and put his shirt back on. I scowled. It should be considered a crime to hide these goods.
A spoon appeared in front of me. “I originally wanted to do this tomorrow, but I know you’re not the biggest fan of public scenes.”
This was an understatement. The video from the comic con had gone viral.
It had been turned into countless TikToks and even inspired its own fan fiction, where I was usually replaced by a teenage girl meeting her author crush.
Since then, I'd been avoiding the public eye—until tomorrow.
Shortly after the convention, John received the news that the movie rights for his book Two Truths and A Lie had been sold to a major streaming service.
Tomorrow was the premiere, a.k.a. our first official outing as a couple.
Now, I had a fancy dress hanging upstairs, waiting to be photographed.
I took the spoon from him. “You really want me to eat this?”
He sucked in a breath, then chewed on his lip. “Maybe not eat, but just dig in.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, then thought better of it, lighting the candle on the table before returning his hands to his pockets.
“You’re acting weird.”
He hung his head. “Please.”
“Okay, Mr. Weirdo.” I poked the spoon into the now-black dessert, surprised that the middle still looked edible. Maybe I could taste just a little...
“No, don’t actually eat it. Just poke it a little,” he said, holding out both his hands, as if this wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone had ever asked me to do.
“Are you having a stroke?”
He groaned.
“Okay, okay.” I dug and stirred...then froze. “There’s something in there.”
John’s whole body tensed.
“What is in there, John?”
“Take it out,” he whispered.
“I’ll burn my hand if I do that.”
He rubbed his face. “Man, I really didn’t think this through.”
My heart fluttered in an irregular rhythm.
“John?” I moved towards the sink, scooping the yellow goop that held something in it under the running tap. “What did you do?”
I felt him move behind me, his hands sliding onto my hips. As the water washed away the burnt apple, something metallic glinted in the kitchen lights.
I took the damp ring off the spoon and turned to face him, my jaw slack and my heart pounding.
“Is this...a proposal?”
He shifted on his feet, not moving his hands from my hips. “You’d think, as a romance writer, I could come up with something better, huh?”
“John.” I poked him repeatedly with my finger. “Tell me if this is a proposal or not before I lose my shit.”
He smiled, taking the wet ring from my hand. “I’m glad I didn’t get you a candy one at first. That shit would’ve melted.”
“John!” I was panting now.
He took a step back, took my hand, and kissed my fingertips. “Two truths and a lie. You are ridiculously hot—”
“That’s subjective.”
“No, it’s not. You are my second-favorite author in the world—after myself, of course. And…if you say no, I may die, but that’s okay.” He stepped closer. “Be my home, Nora.”
I swallowed hard. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Seconds ticked by.
Getting married? John was asking me to get married.
I never once in a million years thought I would find myself here.
But then, I swore I’d never date, never fall in love.
And John...he made me take a leap. Made me want to take that leap.
Looking at him now, this man adored by millions but all mine. ..
“Did you just have a stroke?” he asked, not daring to blink.
I sucked in a breath. “Otis will kill me if he’s not allowed to be a bridesmaid.”
John’s face split into a grin. “Is that a yes?”
I jumped into his arms so hard he toppled backward over the sofa. We both landed in a tangled heap of limbs. “To be Mrs. New York Times Bestselling Author? Sounds perfect.”
Because is there any bravery greater than risking your heart?
The End.