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Butterflies make my stomach quiver at the thought of being alone in my apartment with him. I’m thinking of our night together after the movie, how his lips felt on mine, how his body fit perfectly against my own.
It’s only been two days but I miss him so much it hurts.
“Of course,” I say.
We go into the living room and sit on the couch, where I quickly fold and put away the lap blanket I’ve been burritoing myself in. For a second I wonder if I should excuse myself, slip into something a bit less comfortable, but hey, this is the real Brooklyn Hart. The girl who grew up in a trailer park with parents who loved her, who thinks the people in her life are far more valuable than anything money could buy, who occasionally spends her evenings in baggy fleece pajama bottoms.
Take her or leave her.
Prescott gives me the flowers, then says, “I want you to know that I went back over to my parents’ house this afternoon and set them straight. I told them that you’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met, and that money’s got nothing to do with it. I told them that they can either accept you with open arms or they’ll have nothing to do with either of our lives… and I told them that I am madly, deeply in love with you.”
I’ve never had a take-your-breath-away moment before—I always thought it was something that people like Martha make up for fictional romantic moments. But I honestly can’t catch my breath right now.
“You do?”
He nods, and then all of a sudden, I’m not only breathing again, I’m sobbing. Prescott furrows his brow, then pulls me into a fierce hug. “What’s wrong?”
“I love you too,” I tell him.
I can feel his soft laugh rumbling in his chest as I rest against him. He tilts my head up to look at him. “And that’s a problem?”
“I looked you up online,” I confess, “after dinner with your parents. I saw your Instagram.”
Prescott’s cheeks color. “Damn.”
“I don’t know how I could ever hope to compete with yachts and exotic trips… and those models you hang out with,” I say, self-conscious of my curves in a way that I’m not normally. “I just keep thinking about what your dad said, about living up to the Beaufont name.” I smile even though it hurts and add, “You’re going to get bored with me eventually.”
“Hell no, I won’t,” he says, practically growls the words. “Brooklyn, look at me.”
I do. I gaze into those smoldering eyes and the butterflies in my stomach announce themselves again—I can’t even look at him without feeling it in my core, my heart, my everything. That’s why this is breaking my heart so completely.
But then…
“I should have told you about my history sooner,” he says. “I didn’t want you to hear the name Beaufont and see some spoiled rich asshole… especially because that’s who I used to be. That’s not me anymore, but I keep my old Instagram account just to remind myself how entitled I used to be, and how much good I can do with what I have instead.”
A tiny wave of relief is starting to build within me. All of this is ringing true, sounding so much more like the version of Prescott that I know, that Ty told me about, than the version his parents think he is.
“I went to Jamaica on vacation two years ago,” he continues. “I was just there to party, to live my self-absorbed life, but one day I managed to wander out of the resorts and the tourist traps and wound up in the real Jamaica, where the residents live. I saw poverty, hunger, kids who didn’t have access to education, teenagers who were having kids instead of being kids. And I hate to admit that it was the first time in my life that I really opened my eyes and looked beyond myself.”
Two years ago… I think about the timestamps on his latest Instagram posts, and the year the teen outreach center opened. “You came right home and started doing something about the poverty in your own community,” I marvel. “That’s amazing.”
“With the privilege and wealth I was born into, it’s honestly the least I could do,” he says. “As you heard the other night at dinner, my parents don’t agree with my decision and they think it’s some kind of phase, but I promise you, I was changed on that Jamaica trip.”
“I believe you,” I say. “I’ve only known you a short time, but I’ve known your heart from the beginning.”
Now it’s Prescott’s turn to heave a sigh of relief. “And you don’t think less of me for my past?”
“Of course not,” I say. “What you’re doing now is so much more important—and you’re really changing lives.”
