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“We’ll call later,” I call over her, retrieving the phone to end the call.
I have something infinitely more important to do than to listen to my mother gushing.
I bring my lips to my princess and kiss her again, forgetting the cold, the fact that we’re in public, and anything that isn’t us.
I’ve never felt more at home than I do with my poisonous little flower.
Now I understand her utter bafflement, because I have to stop devouring her long enough to check, “You meant it? You’re sure? You’ll have me?”
I can’t believe she just upped and called my freaking mother, instead of making me jump through hoops, tests—written and oral.
Particularly oral.
I fucked up. I’m man enough to admit it. And Ivy is not the forgiving kind. I love that about her—the fact that she doesn’t take any of my shit—but it should have translated to months of sending flowers, begging for scraps, maybe even serenading at her balcony, I don’t know. Whatever desperate men do these days.
“Of course I’m sure,” she chuckles, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
As though she hadn’t disappeared for four years where all I got were glimpses from her security team when I was weak enough to pull her file.
“No turning back,” I say.
It sounds like an order, only I’m practically begging her not to change her mind. I don’t think I could survive it a second time.
“Why would I? All I ever wanted was for you to actually care.” She hooks her hands behind my shoulders. “I’ve loved you since I was four years old. And turns out, I fucked up, too. Instead of just trying to communicate with you, I ran. Now, I know you love me, so next time you act like a dick, I’ll fight for us. Even if it means fightingyou.”
I’d protest that I don’t intend to be a problem again, but the odds, statistics, and my own character suggest otherwise, so instead, I just kiss her again. And again, and again.
Epilogue
LESS
“It was the hugging, wasn’t it? Admit it.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to answer the little smug shit. She’s been trying to get me to tell her I wouldn’t have Ivy if it weren’t for her sage advice for months.
Though Bella isn’t exactly wrong. Turns out, my girl loves to be hugged. And as it involves touching her, I’m also a fan.
“We’re not talking about me, brat. How are you doing?”
She sighs. “Fine. Honestly, I willnever forgive you, given the fact that my sister ended up leaving the country for four whole years because of you, but I think you made the right decision. Spending your entire life knowing exactly who you’re going to marry, without giving yourself a chance to try anything else? It’s not smart.”
When Nic announced that Bella and he were taking a break—non-officially, the media aren’t aware, and they’re still playing house in public—I figured she’d choose to give a chance to Sebastian Noble, spending a bit of time with him to see how that would work out. But no—she rejected him too, announcing she wanted to be single for a little while.
I don’t get it. It’s not like Nic—or Seb—actually fucked up like I did. But so long as she’s fine, and my brother’s not quite as destroyed as I was when Ivy pulled that distance shit, well, it’s none of my business, really.
“Well, if you want to spend some time in London after graduation, I have an apartment you can stay in,” I offer.
I bought the house Ivy and I moved into in January—I’m not the renting kind of person. A pied-a-terre in the city isn’t the worst investment, given the fact that Ivy has plenty of friends here, all of whom are pretty cool. She’s also going to come back a few times every year for book fairs, or to do some in-person networking.
After finishing her two projects, she resigned from her publishing job, explaining her intention to freelance as an editor. Her boss, Marion, was supportive, and even ended up referring a few agents and authors that don’t quite align with their brand to her. She’s never been busier.
Come June, I will have spent six months in the hospital here, learning under a surgeon who kindled a passion or the busy ER lifestyle.
I come back well after midnight most days, and Ivy’s still awake, a manuscript in her hand and a pencil tucked behind her ear.
We work. We make a conscious effort to work, compromising to ensure we spend as much time as possible together, speaking about every single one of our feelings the moment they emerge. In a way, Bella’s not wrong: we wouldn’t be who we are now without our break, without having worked out what life without each other looks like, and deciding neither of us wanted to go back to that.
Maybe she and Nic will find their way back to each other someday. Maybe they won’t.
