“Is this crazy? We barely know each other. We chatted… in an anonymous government chat feature, Paul. This isn’t a love story. It’s a… municipal meet-cute.”
“People meet online all the time,” he said. “Apps. Websites. Forums. It’s normal now.”
Paul inched his hand closer to hers.
Birdy didn't reach for him.
But she didn't pull away either.
“I stopped going to bars and clubs a long time ago,” he said. “They’re loud, chaotic, full of noise. Online dating? I liked it because I could read people's profiles. You learn a lot about someone by what they choose to say about themselves.”
His index and middle finger walked closer to hers on the table.
“I read your profile on your firm’s website. And I’m pretty sure you read mine on the Social Services staff page. We’ve chatted. We’ve texted. We’ve argued. We’ve made up.” His voice dropped slightly. “We’ve kissed. What’s left, Birdy?”
Her name in his voice was a balm. Steady. Certain. Anchored.
“We can do this. For Beverly. For the baby. For the right reasons.”
Paul's index fingers brushed her thumb.
Birdy pulled her hand away—just enough to grab her phone from her coat pocket. She typed quickly. Precisely. Like she was filing a motion.
Across the table, Paul’s phone vibrated. It was still face-down on the wood. He didn’t move.
“Go ahead,” she said, tipping her chin toward it. “Answer it.”
He turned the phone over, read the screen… and grinned.
CHAPTERTWENTY
The cordless phone crackled a little as Paul leaned back in the worn armchair by the window. He cradled his coffee in one hand and the receiver in the other. Outside, the late afternoon sky was fading into dusky blues and purples, the streetlights blinking on like slow winks against the snow-dusted sidewalks.
“You met someone?” His mother's voice was sharp with delighted disbelief.
“Finally!” his father crowed from somewhere in the background. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”
Paul chuckled, feeling a rare, buoyant lightness inside his chest. “Yeah, I met someone.”
He let the words hang there a moment, savoring them like a secret unwrapped too soon. He hadn't told them that he was engaged. That he was getting married in the morning. He couldn't decide how to breach that topic. Maybe he could just bring her home over Christmas wrapped in a bow?
In his mind, Birdy's face appeared—vivid, electric. That perfect, serious mouth made for arguing... and kissing. Those dark, intelligent eyes that always looked like they were three steps ahead of whatever he was about to say. The high, sleek twist of her hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun that dared anyone to underestimate her.
God, he wanted to see it down again. Loose and wild around her shoulders, the way he imagined it would look first thing in the morning, when she wasn’t bracing herself against the world. When she'd unfurled herself from the cocoon of his arms to greet both the day and him.
Paul thought about her sharp, fitted dress suits. The confident click of her heels across courthouse floors. And he wanted—achingly wanted—to see her in sweatpants. Or sleep shorts. To see her barefoot, hair mussed, coffee mug in hand, glaring at him for smiling too much, smiling at her. Because he had landed her. Because she was going to be his wife.
He wanted the whole picture. The polished Birdy. The unguarded Birdy. The lawyer who conquered courtrooms. The wife who fell asleep mid-book on the couch with her head against his shoulder.
And somehow the world had reshaped itself so that he would have it. Paul would have all of these things. Because she was going to be his wife.
The thought warmed him from the inside out. But even stronger than the images—the suits, the hair, the disheveled mornings—were the words. The ones they’d shared when they didn’t even know each other's names. Typed across a government chat window. Soft, sharp, teasing, vulnerable. Words that had built something between them before he’d ever touched her hand or tasted her mouth. He wanted a lifetime of that. Of words—and arguments—and teasing, and fierce, furious kisses.
He couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. The way she’d surprised him. Surprised herself, maybe. The heat of it. The claim of it. How the whole coffee shop had disappeared until there was nothing but the feel of her mouth on his, the taste of snow-melt and longing and yes.
“Is she nice?” his mother asked.
“Is she pretty?” his father chimed in.
