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We are breathless and exhausted as I slowly lower myself over her, resting my head against her chest, just to hear the lively beating of her heart.
Happiness like this doesn’t last for long—I know that much. But I’m going to do everything I can to savor every second of it.
It’s going to hurt like hell when she breaks my heart, but fuck…she’s worth it.
RULE #20: ENJOY THE VIEW
Daisy
When I peel my eyes open the next morning, everything feels different. I’m curled up under the covers in Ronan’s bed. But when I roll over to lay my hands on him, I find his side cold and empty.
Normally, I’d feel panicked or paranoid, but I don’t with him.
Instead, I sit up and look around the room. The windows are open, bathing the room in warm light, and when I grab my phone off the nightstand, I read the time. Only nine in the morning. Which is impressive, considering we stayed up half the night trading orgasms, wrapped up in each other’s bodies until the exhaustion hit.
My sleep cycle is definitely a mess, but who cares? I had the most amazing night and the most amazing sex of my life, and it feels as if I’ve only scratched the surface of what we could be.
For the first time in months, I feel alive.
After jumping out of bed and cleaning up in the bathroom, I toss on one of my spring dresses I packed and do some poking around the apartment. There’s a desk in the bedroom by the French doors that lead to the balcony.
The thing that catches my eye on the desk is my open lyric journal. There’s a pencil lying in the center to keep it open and I come closer to find someone else’s handwriting scrawled across the page.
You want your life to be poetic, so here you go.
I’m not a poet but I’ve been dying to tell you this.
Your eyes are not as blue as the sky.
The sky is as blue as your eyes.
You write the rest.
A smile stretches across my face as my fingers trace the thin gray lines on the page, rereading them over and over and over. Ronan wrote this.
I can’t stop smiling as I pick up the journal and stare at the blank lines under his note. Grabbing the pencil, I carry the journal out to the balcony, curling up in the wicker chair and placing my feet against the wrought-iron railing. In the distance, I keep the tower in view as I let words spill out of me like water, soaking the pages.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so in tune with my pencil and the lyrics I’m scribbling. It feels like someone else is writing this song. Like I’m possessed.
I write about dusty bookstores and the Eiffel Tower at night. I even write a line about melted cheese over potatoes.
It’s all so fluid and effortless. And nowhere in my mind is there space for grief or pain. I’m not even thinking about thebig secretanymore. Night will come eventually, but for now, I want to bask in the sun.
I barely even notice when the front door slams. I’m finishing a stanza, when I feel him standing over me.
“It worked,” he whispers, and I finally look up to smile at him.
“What worked?” I ask. It’s then that I notice he’s in a pair of jogging shorts and a tight, sweaty T-shirt. Did he really go for a jog after the sex marathon we pulled last night? What is this man made of?
“My little note. I told you…I’m not a poet.”
I’m gazing up at him with the morning sun beaming over the city, and for the hundredth time since I met Ronan, I admire just how dashingly handsome he is. Streaks of black in his mostly gray hair, a crisp jawline, strong cheekbones, and eyes so gold they radiate warmth.
“I love it,” I reply, just as he leans down to press his lips to mine.
“Good.”
He walks away, lifting his shirt from the back and pulling it over his head before tossing it into the hamper by the closet. I’m staring at his defined back muscles, replaying the events of the last few days.
