Our lips are just about to meet, the air crackling with a promise that makes my whole body ache, when the sound of a dozen boisterous teenagers shatters the quiet intimacy of the moment. They burst into the gallery, their loud, cheerful chatter echoing off the high ceilings, their laughter a harsh, unwelcome intrusion.
We both pull back as if startled, a deep blush creeping up Snow’s neck. The spell is broken. The fragile, perfect moment is gone, lost in the sudden, chaotic noise. She looks flustered, vulnerable, and she won’t quite meet my eyes.
My heart aches for her, but I understand. She’s not ready, and I’m grateful the universe gave us both an out. I don’t push. I don’t try to recapture the moment. That would be a move from the romance hero’s playbook, a selfish, unthinking gesture. And I am not him.
Instead, I give her a small, patient smile, letting all the sincerity I feel show in my eyes. I give her space, a silent acknowledgment of her bravery, of her honesty.
“Friends,” I say softly, squeezing her hand gently. “No pressure. Whenever you’re ready — or if you’re never ready — I’m just glad to know you.” Because earning her trust is infinitelymore important than any single kiss. And for something that feels this real, this true, this honest… I’m willing to wait forever.
We sit there for a moment longer, the teenagers’ laughter fading as they move to another room, leaving us in the gentle quiet once more. Snow’s hand finds mine on the bench between us, her fingers threading through mine in a tentative touch that somehow means more than any kiss could have.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
We sit there a little longer, neither of us ready to leave, and I realize I’d wait a lifetime for more moments like this one.
Chapter 13
Snow
I’ve been replaying last night on a loop all day. The way Wyatt leaned in. The way my heart stopped and started and stopped again. The feel of his hand in mine as we sat on that bench, and the quiet promise in his voice when he said he’d wait. I spent the morning pacing my cottage, the afternoon pretending to work on my business plan, and finally gave up and texted Nico that I was coming over. Because if I spend one more hour alone with my thoughts, I’m going to lose my mind.
Nico’s Brooklyn apartment is unapologetically her: sapphire velvet sofa, mismatched pillows, bold art on every wall, and the rich smell of marinara simmering on the stove. The city glitters through her massive windows, alive and chaotic.
She greets me at the door with a fierce hug that leaves me breathless. She’s already in her comfort clothes — a pair of soft, worn-out sweatpants and a tight black tank top, her glossy hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head. She pulls me into the kitchen, where a pot of marinara sauce is simmering on the stove, filling the apartment with the scent of home.
Without a word, she opens a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and pours me a glass so full it’s almost overflowing. This is our ritual, a tradition we started back in college, a silent agreement that whatever is about to be discussed requires good wine and absolute honesty.
She tops off her own glass, takes a healthy sip, and then leans against the counter, her dark eyes sharp and knowing.
“Okay, spill it,” she says, her voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern. “You’ve had this look on your face since you arrived. Dreamy and terrified at the same time. What happened?” She gets straight to the point, her bluntness a refreshing antidote to the world of veiled insults and passive aggression I’ve been living in.
I feel heat rising to my cheeks. “Wyatt,” I say, and even saying his name out loud makes my stomach flip.
Nico’s eyebrows shoot up. “The gallery date, not a date, was last night, right? Oh, this is gonna be good.” She leans back against the counter, wine glass in hand, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “So you’re falling for the romance cover model while divorcing your cheating husband. Very on brand for you, honestly.”
I try to deflect, to downplay the swirling vortex of hope and fear that has taken up residence in my chest. “I’m notfallingfor him,” I say, the words sounding weak and unconvincing even to my own ears. “We just… had a nice time. We went to an art gallery.” I try to keep my tone light.
Nico just raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a silent, bullshit-detecting expression she has perfected over years of friendship. “A nice time?” she repeats, her voice dripping with skepticism. “Snow, you haven’t looked this flustered since you accidentally called our professor ‘dad’ in corporate finance class. Tell me what happened.”
I let out a long, shaky breath and surrender. There’s no point in trying to hide anything from Nico. She sees right through me, always has. I follow her to the plush velvet sofa and curl up on one end, my wine glass cradled in my hands like a lifeline.
“It was easy conversation.”
Nico just raises an eyebrow, a silent invitation to continue.
“He talks about photos, about art, with so much passion,” I say, my voice soft with a wonder I can’t contain. “When he talks abouthisphotography, his whole face lights up. It’s like he becomes a different person.” I shake my head in disbelief. “He’s so different from Preston. He’s quiet, and kind, and he… he sees things. He really sees them.”
“And does he see you?” Nico asks, her question simple but cutting straight to the heart of it.
The question makes my breath catch. “Yes,” I say, the word feeling heavy and true. “He looks at me like I’m something he wants to understand, not something he wants to control or fix. Like he’s genuinely curious about who I am.”
It’s my turn to take a healthy sip of wine before I continue. “We almost kissed,” I confess, the admission hanging in the air.
Nico sits up straighter. “Wait. Back up. Tell me everything.”
“We were on this bench in the gallery,” I say, the memory flooding back. “And he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. It was so gentle, Nico. So deliberate. Like he was asking permission with every inch he moved closer. And I wanted it. I wanted him to kiss me so badly I could barely breathe.”
“And?”
