“You’re the only girl I’ve taken on a real date,” he continues, holding my gaze. “The only one I’ve actually wanted to spend time with.”
My throat tightens, and something deep in my chest squeezes. Hard.
“And,” he adds, lips twitching slightly, “you’re the only girl I’ve baked for. Not well, obviously,” he admits with a chuckle. “But I tried.”
I can’t speak. I can’t do anything but look at him.
“I like you,” he says, running the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. “And I know I joke around a lot, and flirt and tease, but I mean it. I’ve never liked anyone how I like you.”
I step in closer and rest my forehead against his chest, closing my eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.
His hand lifts to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading gently into my hair. “That’s okay,” he murmurs. “Neither do I.”
I pull back slightly to glance up at him. “You’re really sure about me?”
Because if he changes his mind, if he one day comes to realize that this—that I’m—not what he wants… I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.
He meets my gaze without flinching. “I’m sure about nothing but you.” His fingers trail along my jaw, cupping my face. “What about you? Are you sure about me?” he asks, quiet.
I nod. “I am,” I assure him, feeling my lips pull into a smirk. “Even if you suck at baking.”
He lets out a laugh, burying his lips in my hair as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You want some Oreos instead?”
I hum, smiling. “Do you have peanut butter?”
He freezes a bit, his smile widening. “What a weird combination.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” I tell him.
He chuckles, his hand flexing on my hips. “What my baby wants, my baby gets,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “The only dessert I really want is you, anyway.”
He wags his brows at me, and I roll my eyes just before he cups my face and leans down to press his lips against mine.
And I smile against his mouth, because this is starting to feel real. And I’m finally starting to let myself believe that I can trust it. That it’s mine.
Thathe’smine.
28
MAISIE
If someone had told me six months ago that I’d be spending a Friday night in a dorm room with two girls who were actually friends of mine, I would’ve laughed in their face and gone back to my room, alone like usual.
I’ve never had anything like this before. A real girls’ night. Friends who text me. Friends who actually want me around.
I’ve spent so long on the outside, watching everyone else laugh like they belonged. I used to think that was just how it’d always be for me, like maybe I just wasn’t built to fit in anywhere.
But here I am.
Isabella’s sitting on the floor trying to paint her nails, which—considering we’re two glasses in and packed into a dorm room with zero ventilation—is going about as well as you’d expect.
“You’re seriously doing French tips?” Aurora lifts an eyebrow. “What are you, someone’s stepmom?”
Isabella barely glances up. “French tips are timeless, thank you very much.”
“Boring, more like,” Aurora mutters. “They look like the acrylics I got in seventh grade.”
I bite back a laugh and take another sip of wine. It’s kind of sour and definitely not good, but I’m not exactly picky right now.
