Page 163 of Stranger to Love

She led me to the large sofa, and we sank into the plush cushions. With the massive charcuterie board laid out in front of us, I reached for the remote and put on The Proposal. As the movie started, I couldn’t help but grin at the screen; watching Sandra Bullock’s high-powered, terrifyingly controlled character, I realised she was practically the Hollywood version of the woman currently feeding me a slice of prosciutto.

"I wanted to do every single stereotypical Valentine's thing," I admitted, leaning my head onto her shoulder. "And that included a soppy rom-com."

Carrie hummed, the vibration soothing against my skin as she sipped her champagne. She didn't even look at the TV. Instead, her gaze was fixed firmly on me, trailing from the lace of my bra up to the flush on my neck.

"You could put on a documentary about tax law, Alex, and I wouldn't complain," she smirked, her voice dropping into that dark, intimate register. "I’m perfectly happy just enjoying the view."

I felt a surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the fireplace. We sat there for a while, tucked together under the glow of the heart-shaped balloons, picking at the strawberries and laughing at the movie. It was the most normal, "couple" thing we’d done since our first date, yet with the way Carrie’s hand was slowly beginning to wander under the silk of my robe, the night felt anything but ordinary.

The first bottle of champagne disappeared faster than I expected, and as the movie played on, the room felt like it was shrinking until it was just the two of us in a haze of silk and firelight. Carrie popped the cork on a second bottle with practiced ease, the crisp pop echoing against the high ceiling.

I was starting to feel the alcohol then; that warm, fuzzy weightlessness was settling into my limbs, and my guard was slipping with every sip. I found myself ignoring the movie entirely, my eyes tracing the lines of Carrie’s face. She was so utterly relaxed, a version of her the world never got to see. I studied the tiny creases by her eyes when she laughed, the perfect, sharp bow of her lips, and the two dark freckles on the side of her neck that I’d memorised like a fucking map. She wasn't just beautiful because of the lingerie or the power she exuded—she was just her, and the realisation made my chest ache.

In a fit of sudden, nervous energy, I downed the rest of my glass.

Carrie let out a low, melodic chuckle, reaching over to swiftly refill it. "Careful, darling," she teased, her voice like velvet. "You shouldn't get too drunk. Not when I haven't even had my way with you yet."

I tried to chuckle back, but it came out half-hearted. My heart was pounding against my ribs so hard I was worried she could see my skin vibrating.

Is it too fucking stereotypical if I tell her I love her tonight? The thought was screaming in my head. Is it too weird to say it while we're sitting here wrapped in lace and silk, watching a rom-com and eating chocolate-covered fucking strawberries? A few months ago, I would have mocked—not mocked, absolutely ripped the shit out of—anyone this sentimental, but then, the words were sitting on the back of my tongue, heavy and desperate to break free.

Carrie set the bottle down and turned to me, her expression softening as she noticed my silence. She reached out, her thumb tracing my jawline with a tenderness that made my breath hitch.

"You've gone very quiet, Alex," she murmured, her dark eyes searching mine. "Where did you go?"

I downed the glass again, the bubbles stinging my throat, but I didn't fucking care. I needed the liquid courage to drown out the internal screaming.

Carrie let out a soft, concerned chuckle as she reached out and firmly took the empty flute from my hand. She set it down on the coffee table with a quiet clink and turned to me fully, her silk robe slipping further off one shoulder.

"Should I be worried, darling?" she teased, though there was a new edge of scrutiny in her eyes. "Do you really have to drink quite this much to enjoy a Valentine's evening with me? I thought I was better company than that."

I didn't smile. I didn't smirk. I didn’t even give her one of my usual sarcastic comebacks. I just sat there, frozen, my face probably a mask of pure fucking terror. My stomach was doing backflips.

The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the upbeat, orchestral music of the movie’s wedding scene. Carrie’s playful expression faltered. She reached for the remote and clicked it, the screen freezing on a shot of Sandra Bullock looking flustered. The sudden lack of noise made the room feel ten times smaller.

"Alex?" Carrie’s voice was low then, stripped of all teasing. She shifted closer, her hand coming up to cup my face, her thumb stroking my cheekbone. "You’ve gone pale. Are you feeling ill? Did the strawberries..."

"No," I croaked out, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. I finally looked her in the eye, and the sheer amount of affection I saw reflected back in her dark gaze made me feel like I was about to fucking burst. "No, I’m fine. I’m just... I’m an idiot, Carrie."

She frowned, her brow furrowing in that way that usually meant someone was about to get a lecture, but her touch remained incredibly gentle. "You aren't an idiot. But you are clearly distressed. Talk to me."

I looked at the 'Will You Be My Valentine?' banner hanging crookedly on the wall, then back at her—at the woman who gave me her credit card, her house keys, and her absolute, undivided attention.

"I didn't just do all this because it's Valentine’s day," I whispered, my heart leaping into my throat. "I did it because I... I don't know how else to tell you.”

Carrie's eyes flickered around the room for a second as if the answer to my rambling was hidden somewhere in the roses. “Darling, what do you—”

“I want to—I have—I realised, for a while now I’ve known.” Fuck, what was wrong with me? I was rambling like a total idiot. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that extra glass. I took a deep breath, looked down at my shaking hands, and swallowed hard. I forced myself to look up, to meet her gaze and just say it.

“Carrie, I love you. I... I am in love with you.”

The silence that followed was fucking deafening. Carrie practically froze, her body turning to stone as my words hung in the air like a thick, suffocating fog.

Immediately I wished that I could reach out, grab those words, and ram them back down my fucking throat. The vulnerability hit me all at once, sharp and cold. A moment ago, the lingerie had felt empowering and sexy; then, I just felt fucking exposed, like a fool who dressed up to be rejected in high-definition firelight.

I tried to keep my composure, but my lip trembled, and a single, traitorous tear escaped. I wiped it away with a frantic, fucking embarrassed motion, my face burning with a shame so intense I couldn’t even look at her.

The worst part was the movement of her hand. She slowly—fucking painfully slowly—withdrew her fingers from my cheek. The loss of her touch felt like a physical blow, a confirmation of the rejection I was already spiralling toward. I stared at my lap, watching the flickering orange light from the fireplace dance across my shaking hands, wishing I could just fucking vanish into the upholstery.