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Then she turned her body, leaned in so they were pressed together from toes to chest. The hand that wasn’t held by his lifted, cupped the side of his neck. “I missed out a lot because I was too scared to try again, too scared to live when this shit”—a tilt of her head back in the direction of the department—“could pop back up like a fucked-up game of Whack-a-Mole.”
“I get that, sweetheart,” he told her gently.
“And”—teeth in her lip for a heartbeat before releasing—“I’m tired.”
“I get that too, sweetheart.”
“But…” A deep breath. “I’m going to channel Auntie Pat.”
His pulse began to pick up, his body growing taut, seeing her expression change, her eyes alter, feeling the shift in her body. This was…well, it felt like they were standing on the edge of a platform, a bungee cord strapped to their backs, waiting to jump.
Ready for free fall.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered.
“I love you,” she whispered back, those fingers flexing on his neck. “And I’m not going to waste another second without you knowing it.”
Another of those brisk nods.
Then the woman—his beautiful, wonderful woman—pulled away, tried to walk into the cafeteria. “I think it’s potato soup today—ah!”
He snagged her wrist, drew her back, and kissed her.
Right there in the open doors.
Right there where anyone could see.
Right there where the gossip would flow at light speed.
And when he was done kissing her, he cupped her cheek, tilted her head up so their eyes connected. “I love you, too.”
Warm.
Sweet.
His.
Then he took her hand and drew her forward again. “Now,” he said. “I think that big of a declaration means we can get sweet potato friesandonion rings.”
Twenty-Seven
Raven
“Can someone pass me the pasta salad?” Misty asked, pointing at one of the many bowls in the center of the table.
“Umm…” Raven said, eyeing her choices, all of which seemed to hold some sort of pasta concoction.
Soph grinned from one side of the long table that took up a good portion of their deck. “It’s the purple and green one.”
A nudge from Maggie’s elbow. “Yeah, the one withpastain it.”
“Just saying”—she leaned forward and hefted the purple and green bowl (withpasta in it) and shot Maggie a glare—“that there are about ten different types of pasta on this table and not one of them resembles salad.”
“My chickpea salad is more salad thanthatstuff,” Frankie chimed in from a few seats away, waving a hand at the bowls.
“Thisstuff,”Misty said, leaning over Maggie and snagging the bowl, “is the best thing on the table.”
“Which is why you eat a vat of it every time Martha makes it, squirt,” Rob said, bending and kissing the top of his sister’s head—and then mussing her hair, just for good measure.
