Page 180 of Letters From A Stalker

Julia closes her eyes. “Daniel.”

“What? I’m supportive.” He laughs and walks away, followed by her version of an evil eye that, in all honestly, just makes her fucking adorable. I do hold the right to be biased but also I know that I’m not.

Julia watches them leave and mutters, “One day I’m going to kill him.”

“No, you’re not.”

Her gaze snaps back to me. “You have been waiting nine months to become the voice of reason in that sentence, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.”

She comes toward me, and the closer she gets, the less successful I am at keeping the grin off my face.

“Well?” she asks.

I uncross my ankles and push away from the wall. “Well what?”

Her mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”

“I’m waiting for the question.”

“Kai.”

I let her suffer for another second before taking the folder from her arms and setting it on the windowsill beside us. Then I put both hands on her face and kiss her. Not politely or courthouse appropriately. Enough that somebody walking behind us clears their throat while Julia curls her fingers into the front of my shirt and kisses me back with a small sound against my mouth that makes every plan I had for the next hour suddenly cancelled.

When I pull away, she is smiling.

“That,” she says softly, “was the correct answer.”

“You were fucking incredible.”

Her smile widens. “I won.”

“You did.”

“I actually won.”

I laugh because she looks almost offended by the fact. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m allowed to be surprised. That man’s attorney spent forty minutes acting like I had invented domestic violence to inconvenience his client.”

“And then you dismantled every argument he made.”

Her eyes narrow affectionately. “Were you taking notes?”

“I pay attention when my woman is terrifying men professionally.”

The words make something warm move across her face. Even after all this time, my woman still does that to her. I like it far more than I should. She steps into me and wraps both arms around my waist, pressing her cheek against my chest while the courthouse carries on around us. I hold her. There was a time when touching Julia required darkness, stolen moments and a mask. Now she gets to be mine in public and that difference matters every single day.

“I’m proud of you,” I murmur against her hair.

Her grip tightens. “I know.”

“You should be proud of yourself too.”

“I am.” She leans back enough to look up at me. “So proud I may become unbearable.”

“You passed that threshold years ago.”