I pull back from him, my head resting against the doorframe he must have backed me into at some point, and stare up into his eyes. They’re no longer the color of the spring sky. They’ve turned into something stormier, zipping with an undercurrent of electricity. I want to tug him into my apartment, keep him all to myself tonight. But I also want to go out, spend the evening dancing with him under fairy lights, feel his warm body moving in time with mine.
“We better go, or we’re going to be late.”
His lips land on my neck again, sliding down it to try and inch beneath the collar of my dress, find that spot he left his mark on this morning. “I’m fine with that. In fact, we should skip it.” I can feel his smile against my skin, and it mirrors my own.
“That sounds nice.”
“Perfect,” he says a second before his hands hook under my thighs, lifting me up and carrying me into the apartment.
I squeal, my head tipping back in the kind of laugh that feels magical, memorable. The kind you see on TV and ache for. “Grey, let me down. We have to go to this wedding.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I want to.”
At this, he drops me slowly, letting me land gently on my high heels. But he doesn’t move his hands from my hips. He keeps me tight against him. His eyes search mine, considering, a thoughtful line etched between his brows.
“Why?”
“I want to go out with you, all dressed up, and dance until our feet hurt and drink until our heads are fuzzy, the way we should have at Holden and Wren’s wedding.” I’m a little surprised by my answer, but it’s the truth.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, the divot between his brows not disappearing. His Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow before he asks, “So it’s not abouthim?” He doesn’t have to say who.
I shake my head, feeling the truth of it in my bones. It really has nothing to do with Gus and everything to do with Grey. “I just want to spend my evening with you, having fun.”
Slowly, the way the sun crests the horizon at dawn, flowers arcing toward its draw, his face transforms. The wrinkle between his brow disappears, only to reappear at the edges of his eyes, and a smile curls over his lips. His lone dimple pops in his cheek, and I have the overwhelming urge to fit my finger right there. Instead, I press my lips to it.
“Let’s go.”
Doing the flowers for weddings comes second only to attending them. If I think the air is filled with crackling, anticipatory electricity before the ceremony, it only heightens when the wedding actually starts. Normally, I like to watch the groom when the bride walks out, catch his reaction to his bride. I didn’tplan on doing that today, but I find my eyes wandering there of their own accord.
There’s no prick of pain when Gus’s smile stretches across his mouth, blinding in its brightness. There’s only the warm feeling I always get. And when Grey’s hand finds my hip, squeezing it and pulling me back ever so slightly into the heat of his chest, I know he feels it too.
It’s only then, feeling him behind me, that the thought pops into my head. That maybe this could be us next. That maybe this will be the relationship that doesn’t end in heartache. That maybe this will be the one that doesn’t end at all.
I think he’s thinking it too, because when we sit down, his calloused hand finds mine, and he holds on. As we watch Gus and Eloise reciting their vows, our hands tangled together, his thumb moving idly back and forth over my skin, I realize I’m in love with him. When Gus and Eloise kiss for the first time as husband and wife, I don’t watch. I finally allow myself to glance up at Grey, and I find him already looking at me. And I think I see the same look reflected in his eyes.
I think Grey loves me back.
“I’m nervous,” I say,smoothing my sweating palms over the skirt of my strawberry-printed sundress. Anxiety knots low in my stomach, spreading out to my limbs.
In the mirror, I can see Grey smiling at me from where he’s propped against my bedroom doorframe, his body all lean lines and effortless relaxation. His eyes are heated as he watches me, like warm honey drizzled over biscuits.
“Don’t be nervous,” he responds, voice low, comforting, slipping over my shoulders and down my spine to unknot the tension tied tightly there. “Charlie is going to love you.”
“Charlie is going to think I don’t deserve you.” I don’t turn from the mirror, switching from standing on one foot and then the other to decide which shoes look better. Espadrilles or ballet flats with laces that tie up my ankles. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“The ones with the ties,” he says, and pushes off the doorframe. I can feel his heat as he comes up behind me. He’s dressed in soft-looking linen pants and a dark navy short-sleevebutton-down that stretches across his biceps and contrasts stunningly with his pale blue eyes. He looks edible.
His hands find my hips, circle around my stomach, and pull me back into him. “And Charlie could never think you don’t deserve me. No one could.Idon’t deserveyou.”
The words he’s saying are sweet, tender, but there’s something haunted in his eyes that makes my chest hollow out and ache.
I think he truly believes that. That he doesn’t deserve me. That he has to do something to earn my love. I want to tell him that I already do, but that feels terrifying. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and deciding to free-fall off it, expecting to be stopped from hitting the ground.
So instead, I spin around in his arms so we’re face to face. My hands land on his chest, and I feel his heart beating beneath my palm in time with my own. Like our hearts were made with each other in mind. I wonder if they’ve always beat like this, in tune with one another, and they were just waiting to be brought together.
My eyes find his. They look like they always do. Steady. Unique. Full of a longing I only recently noticed and now can’t unsee.
