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I bit the bullet and spit out my answer. “To spend more time with you.”
“Thursday evenings might work,” she teased. “That is if you’re not too busy rearranging your linen closet. Or putting your spices in alphabetical order or something.”
“They’re easier to find that way,” I told her. I took out my phone, deciding to play along. “I think I can probably make space in my schedule.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, smartass.” She was being funny, but she couldn’t see that I was one hundred percent serious.
“Glad to see I make the cut.”
“Siren?”
“Hmm?”
“Marisa”—I used her name so she’d understand the severity of what I was asking—“I don’t want Thursdays.” It was time to man the hell up and tell her.
Marisa eyed me, confusion flickering across her face. “Okay. What day do you want?”
“I want . . . whatever day I want.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t want a scheduled day anymore. I want to be able to come see you. Or you to come and see me. Any day.”
Her mouth formed into an O, but she didn’t say anything.
I pulled the final punch. “Every day.”
She swallowed the last of her wine and started to wobble on her heels. I placed my hands at her waist to steady her.
“I know this is unfamiliar for both of us. And not what we expected. Or agreed on. But I want more.” My words were straight from the heart. I just hoped she wasn’t about to break mine. Still, I was willing to chance that. If I didn’t, I knew I would regret it.
I saw her breath catch in her throat as her eyes met mine. “Oh, my goodness.”
“I do. And it’s okay if you don’t. But I didn’t want to not be honest with you.”
Her hand was tentative and shaking as it came to my face. “Okay.”
“Okay, as in you understand?”
“No. Okay, as in okay. As in yes. I want more too.”
My heart skipped a beat as her words hit me. I pulled her close and pressed my lips to hers.
I knew I heard her correctly, but I could almost sense the butterflies in her stomach at her nervousness.
Taking Marisa’s hand in mine, my smile was almost devilish, and I admitted one more thing. “I’m scared too. But I want to take a chance.”
She nodded, her words still stuck in her throat. “Your resolution is so much better than mine.” Her smile was ear to ear. This was so typical of us—romance threaded in between humor.
I laughed before I kissed her again. I was happy as a clam. And if her smile was any indication of how she felt, she was right there on board with me.
We stood together with our great group of friends—old and new—our flutes of champagne raised to bring in the new year.
The room burst with exultant and joyous energy as we counted down, finally celebrating with a chorus of “Happy New Year!” when the clock finally struck midnight.
I kissed her right after the clock struck twelve. And this time, I took my time, enjoying how she felt in my arms, her heart beating as crazily as mine. But it felt good—damn good—to finally be on the same page.
