Page 116 of In a Word, Yes

“I’d say you better be lying, mister, or my entire life is a sham.”

“All right. Then, what if told you I had such a big crush on you that I choked?”

“Now I know you’re punkin’ me. No one had a crush on me in middle school.”

“How would you even know whether anyone was crushing on you?”

“Never once was I asked to a school dance.”

“Pshaw. Teenage boys don’t know how to ask.”

“Are you making this up? You’re making this up.”

“That there, ma’am, is confidential police business. But I might be persuaded to kiss and tell.”

I don’t kid myself. Stubby nails and skimpy curves don’t make for a classic temptress. But with Wyatt I feel beautiful. Desirable. Admired for the real me—quirks, blunders, and all.

He leans down. Places slow, tender kisses on my lips. My forehead. My temple.

I’m enveloped in his light woodsy scent.

Wyatt looks at me in that all-seeing way. That’s what it is—he sees me.

“You know,” I say, “it’s too bad you moved after seventh grade.”

“And why is that?”

“We could’ve been academic rivals all through school, like Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe, from—”

“I know the reference.”

I grin. “Right.”

“Sisters,” we both say.

I tuck my hands in his coat pockets. “Anyway, we missed out on the whole enemies-to-lovers trope.”

“Would you say they were enemies? Seems like he just waited for Anne to love him.”

“Meanwhile, she was unkind to him. That always frustrated me.”

He leans close, his breath brushing against my hair. “Would you have tormented me, Luce? I mean, if, say, I’d been Gilbert.”

My mouth forms a coy smile. Exhilaration zings around in my chest at the mere suggestion that this man, with his strong arms and his poetic soul and his penchant for deep conversation, this man who is so deftly chipping away at my jaded attitude about love just by being his wonderful self, might be my Gilbert Blythe.

Wyatt puts a finger to my lips. “Don’t answer that. Either way,” he says thickly, “I would have waited for you.” He rests his forehead against mine, and when our eyes lock, all sense of time and place falls away. The intensity and openness of his gaze feel like an open window, inviting me to a private showing of his heart.

And what I see there compels me for the first time in what feels like forever to draw back the curtain and fling wide the window to my own.

“I will wait for you, Lucy Montgomery. I think I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”

“Maybe you don’t have to. Maybe I’m readier than I knew.”

We resume walking. The sidewalks are empty, the streetsmostly quiet. When Wyatt stops again, we’re across the street from my favorite tea and used bookstore. There’s a warm yellow glow in the window now decorated with piles of crunchy-looking maple leaves.

“Here we are. Home of the illustrious Sweet Reads Writing Society,” I say.

“The exalted Sweet Reads Writing Society.”