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I harrumph. “Fine. What’s your favorite part of Paris?”
As the Ferris wheel circles higher, he runs his fingers through my hair, his gaze holding mine. His dark eyes shine with desire, but something deeper, too. Something that feels powerful and real and like it’s not stupid to imagine seeing Paris with him.
Seeing the world with him.
Maybe even my next ten or twenty birthdays with him.
“My favorite part of Paris is taking you for a visit at your earliest convenience,” he whispers, and I’m done for.
That’s it. I’m waving the white flag. Throwing in the towel.
I am head over heels in love with this man. It’s only been six days, but I don’t care. He’s the man of my dreams. And it’s time for me to tell him so. To take the first step.
To put my heart on the line.
Because I feel it.
And most of all because it’s true to the better, brighter version of myself I’m becoming.
Less afraid. More daring.
But still, this is so damn hard. I do my best to swallow down the nerves and the giddy butterflies, except they’re fluttering inside me in equal measure. I run my thumb along his jaw, then cup his cheek. “West Byron, magnificent spitter, wonderful human, person I am so glad I met over a Rubik’s Cube… I am falling madly in love with you.”
His smile is melting chocolate. “What do you know? I’m falling madly in love with you too, Gigi James.” Then he kisses me just as we reach the top of the Ferris wheel, with all of Brooklyn spread out below and the stars sparkling just for us, even if we can’t see them.
As we kiss, the Coney Island firework show begins.
It is a perfect night.
Wait. No.
It’s even better. It’s just so.
26
WEST
The next week is the best week. Ever.
Life is fucking beautiful and I’m fucking in love and fucking the most amazing woman in the world and if I weren’t already running fucking late after a fucking scone-related emergency at work—note to self, do not let Abby near the oven again, even with pre-mixed dough and detailed instructions—I would insist on fucking Gigi up against the wall by my front door in that fucking fantastic dress.
“Fuck,” I groan as she lifts the hem of the slinky, emerald-green number, revealing sheer black stockings and satiny garters.
Garter belts.
“Fuck, fuck, holy fuck,” I mutter again.
She laughs as she lets the dress drop back into place around her legs. “You say fuck a lot when you’re stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.” I run a hand over my rumpled, kitchen-scented hair. “I’m hard. And it’s your fault.”
“It’s your fault for asking to see my stockings. And if you’re not stressed, you should be.” She glances at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. “You have exactly seventy minutes to shower and get your sexy ass to the venue. And traffic is awful heading to Williamsburg at rush hour on Fridays.”
“I’ll take the tube,” I say offhandedly, earning myself a frustrated sigh from my oh-so-sexy partner in crime.
Ah, partner.
I like the thought a little more every time it drifts through my head.
“No, West,” she says patiently, “I told you, there’s no easy way to get there from here on the subway. You’d either have to go all the way into Manhattan first or transfer twice in Brooklyn and then catch a bus and you’ll—”
“Never get there on time,” I finish just as a car horn honks outside. I shoo her off. “Go. Get settled. I’ll see you there.”
She hesitates, her brow furrowing. “Maybe you should just come with me in the car now. You look better with a five o’clock shadow and sticky kitchen face than most men look after an hour of primping.”
“There’s plenty of time for me to primp. Go.”
“But I—”
“Go,” I insist. “I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself and you later tonight, after I win and you do a striptease for me to celebrate.”
She rolls her eyes. “Silly, man, I’m doing a striptease for you no matter who wins.” Then she winks, blows me a kiss, and hurries out the door to the car.
I watch her through the glass beside the door for a moment.
She looks damn good walking away from me. And even better headed back the other direction.
Making a mental note to ask her to move in with me as soon as it’s remotely appropriate—two more weeks? Maybe one? Or tonight?— I take the stairs two at a time and rush through a shower.
Seventy-five minutes later, I’m stuck in traffic at least ten minutes from the venue—a hotel in Williamsburg with a large rooftop beer garden where we’ll be cooking as the sun sets.
But it’s fine. It’s not like I need a tour of my station this time around. I know the ropes, and I’ll be there long before the actual cooking starts.
