“I’m glad you didn’t. If I’d frozen you out before getting the chance to fall, I don’t think I’d ever recover from what might have been.” The words rumble through his chest straight to my heart.
“Might have been, huh?”
“Still could be, I hope?”
This hug isn’t something I’m ever going to want to break apart from, but I need him to see me when I say this, so I push back just enough to stare up into his deep blue eyes. “Yes.”
The grin that breaks across his face is bright enough to hurt after being in darkness for so long. “Is it too early to plan a future?” he asks.
I start laughing. “If you’re asking me as Poppy, yes. But not if you’re asking me as Poppy Grace. I like that name, by the way.”
“I love it,” he says.
“I loveyou, GreenArrow11. Fletch. Ollie.”
“It’s Oliver,” he tells me, shifting his hands so they’re perched possessively on my hips. “Oliver Fletcher.”
“Oh, are you Oliver Fletcher? In that case, I take it all back.”
He snorts and leans down. “No you don’t.”
I stand on my tiptoes. “Prove it.”
His mouth claims mine, and his lips rob me of whatever fake protests I had left. I throw my arms around his neck, and suddenly, he’s picking me off the ground, putting us on even footing while we kiss. Minus the footing.
And my word, does this kiss blow any other out of the park. Because as surprising—as delicious—as it was to kiss him in Kansas, as wonderful as it was to kiss him in Cleveland and on the train this morning, we weren’t the same people then. We were Fletch and Poppy. That first kiss was like a gasoline fire that flared bright and hot but that couldn’t last. The next ones were caught up in the excitement of new love.
This is completely different. Oliver and Poppy Grace, two people who’ve known each other, who’ve seen the best and worst of each other, who’ve suffered and persevered for each other. This kiss isn’t just heat—although it is absolutely hot—it’s emotion. Healing.
Love.
And again, I cannot emphasize this enough: it is also very hot.
I’m dimly aware of the song changing. “All I Want Is You” by U2 starts playing—all aching guitars and orchestral yearning. It starts so simply but with a driving, rising emotion that I feel in my bones. It’s a gift from my dad, this song playing in this moment. And I know exactly what Bono is saying.
All I want is you,I think as I kiss Oliver.
His thumb traces my jawline, and I shiver despite the warmth flooding through me. His other hand slides up my back, fingers splaying wide like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me.
I thread my fingers through his wild hair, and it’s softer than I imagined. He makes a sound low in his throat that I feel more than hear.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and he sets me down.
“Wow,” he says, his hands finding my waist.
“Wow,” I echo, taking a deep breath.
He leans down and presses one more soft kiss onto my lips. When he backs up, his thumb rubs my cheek. “This may be weird timing, but can I see your phone?”
“Uh, what?”
“I need your number. I’m not letting you go again.”
“Was that a threat?” I ask with a laugh.
“Is he threatening you?” Mike barks from only a couple yards away, and suddenly, all of Dad’s friends are rushing Oliver, and I’m standing in front of him, screaming it was a joke.
But it’s Uncle Bill who comes out of nowhere. He grabs Oliver from by the tuxedo lapels and pushes him against the wall. “You hurt my niece,” I hear him growl, “and what these guys want to do to you will look like child’s play compared to what I’ll do.”
