Page 113 of Romeo

Or lean down and kiss her.

The rest of the night moved faster than I wanted. We danced until Fiona complained her feet hurt. We took pictures in front of a backdrop so ridiculous I planned to hold the evidence over her forever. We sat at one of the tables and talked while couples came and went around us, and somewhere along the way, she stopped checking to see who was watching.

That was the part I liked best.

She forgot to be self-conscious.

The girl who’d walked through the gym doors holding herself tight had disappeared. Fiona laughed when I deliberately ruined one of the formal pictures. She dragged me back onto the dance floor for a song she liked, then informed me my taste in music remained questionable despite all evidence to the contrary.

I noticed the boys watching her.

Of course I did.

I wasn’t fucking dead.

But every time that darker territorial instinct started crawling up my spine, Fiona would say something that pulled my attention back where it belonged.

To her.

By the time the DJ announced the last song, she was leaning against my shoulder.

“Tired?” I asked.

“A little.” She looked around the gym as if trying to memorize it. “But it was perfect.”

I hadn’t known how badly I needed to hear that until she said it.

“Come on.” I stood and held out my hand. “Let’s get you home.”

She took it without hesitation.

The drive back to Granny’s was quiet again, only now Fiona’s hand rested on the center console between us. Every turn brought her fingers against mine.

Neither of us moved away.

When I pulled into Granny’s driveway, the porch light was still on.

I nodded toward it. “Your favorite place in Rosewood.”

Fiona looked at the porch, then back at me. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything you tell me.”

Her expression softened in that way that always made me feel like I’d accidentally said too much. I got out and opened her door. Instead of heading straight inside, Fiona walked up the steps and sat on the porch swing.

When she patted the space beside her, I knew I’d be a fool to wait for a second invitation.

For a few moments, we sat without talking, listening to the faint creak of the swing and the distant sounds of the town settling for the night.

“This was the best night of my life,” she said softly.

I turned toward her. There was no teasing in her expression now. No careful little wall built out of jokes and questions.

Just Fiona.

“Good,” I said. “You deserve the best, Fiona. Always.”

We stayed on the porch for more than an hour.