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One guy had a phone out and was filming us—from behind Will, thankfully, because the last thing I needed right now was for Will to go ballistic and get arrested for assaulting some tourist.
“Oh my god, just kill me please,” Will said, the applause making it hard for me to hear him.
I closed the distance between us in one step, the Vans he got me for my birthday touching the toes of his designer sneakers, our shadows overlapping on the ground as I reached for him, creating a shadow deeper than either of them on their own.
“Sometimes I want to,” I said. “And then you buy me stars and declare your love for me in public and ask me to move in with you, because you’re so romantic.”
I could see the glare start to form in Will’s eyes, the edge of the snarl on his lips as he prepared to fight. So before he could, I pulled him to me, held him at the waist, and dipped him backward so he had to grab my shoulders to keep from falling.
And then—like an iconic photograph, a movie musical, the swooniest of swoony romance novel covers—I kissed the hell out of Will Highland in front of a crowd, on a spring afternoon in Central Park, as the city came alive around us.
