Noah’s shoulders slump, a flash of uncertainty flickering across his expression.
“It’s okay, Noah,” I begin, already walking toward him. “You don’t have to—”
“I’ve never been in love before.”
His abrupt confession glues my feet to the terrain. “What?”
“My last book was criticized rather harshly. Reviewers said they had a hard time connecting with my male character because he felt distant and aloof, even as he confessed his love for the heroine.”
“You? You’re the king of romance. You could give lessons on the art of flirting. Trust me, I’ve been on the receiving end of it lately. Ten out of ten. Five stars. Would recommend.”
That statement earns a chuckle, but Noah still looks downtrodden with his slouching frame and long face. “You’re right. I’m great at flirting. I’m great at romance. But love? The kind built between a woman and a man that’s meant to last a lifetime? I fear I’ve never experienced it. At least the real kind. The kind that doesn’t leave or fade away even after death. The kind my grandparents and my parents have—even when the other half of them is gone to be with the Lord. I want the kind of love Iwantto choose. ApersonI want to choose.”
I gently caress his arm before moving to place my palm on his face, forcing him to look me in the eyes. “Noah Ashley Ashton, you might not have experienced that type of love before, but I have no doubt you are a capable and worthy man. You deserve a love that stays. One that doesn’t fade away into the recesses of memory.”
Water drips from Noah’s chin, and I can’t tell if it’s sweat or a tear.
“Thank you, Esme. You deserve that, too,” Noah whispers, his fingers brushing across my cheek. We stand there as moments—maybe eternities—pass, touching each other’s face and staring into one another’s soul. But then a gust of wind sweeps through, rustling branches and ushering dust particles into our eyes. We break apart, finishing the rest of the hike in a comfortable silence.
As we reach the peak of the mountain, I know there’s no universe or dimension in existence where I go back to Juniper Grove, Mississippi, and pretend that Noah Ashley Ashton—contemporary romance author Noah Ashton—doesn’t exist.
“How have I never read your books?” I muse as we overlook the island, boasting a vibrant floor of green with dazzling specks of color throughout. The sun is high above us, casting diamonds into the ocean out below. We sit on a huge, jagged rock, hisarm around my waist and my head leaning against his broad shoulder.
“Probably because the second novel has a sucky love interest.” Noah kisses my forehead, and I’m glad to see he’s joking about it now instead of letting it weigh him down. “But the one I’m writing now? Based here in Bora Bora?” Noah pulls me closer. “I think I might get it right.” He pauses, asking me if I catch the meaning behind his words, and my chest aches from the beat of my heart as frissons rack through my body.Yes,I want to say. I hear you loud and clear. But I can’t bring myself to admit it aloud. It’s not possible to fall for a vacation fling. Noah and I are reveling in the reverie of it all. It’s a fever dream.
But it feels a whole lot like forever…
Letting me off the hook from responding, Noah asks, “You’ll read them now, won’t you? When you get back to wherever you’re from?”
His tone rises at the end, hinting for me to tell him. When I pull away to look into his eyes, my heart thumps wildly while every other part of me feels absurdly safe. And just like that, the doubt-switch flips.
This safety isdifferent.
It’s not a cautious, this-is-the-best-I’ll-get-so-I-should-settle type of safe.
It’s a soul-securing type of safe. The type of safe where you know he would save you before saving himself. The type of safe where you can trust him enough to fall asleep in his arms. The type of safe one only finds in their metaphorical soulmate. It’s a thing of romance books. And he’s the leading male in my world.
They do exist. Men like that. Ryan was wrong.
And I was a fool to believe it all this time.
“Yes.” I breathe the word. “I’m going to read every single book you’ve written when I get back home to Juniper Grove, Mississippi.” He’s earned yet another personal fact about me.This one could lead him straight to my doorstep when this vacation fling is over.
I’m starting to hope it does.
He grins wickedly. “Goodness gracious, girl. This just gets better and better,” he says in an exaggerated Southern accent. I playfully elbow him, but he continues. “Fate, indeed. I’m from Hartfield, Mississippi.”
“Thirty freaking minutes from me!” Astonished, I rocket to my feet. He moves with me, a grin the size of Alaska painting his face. Excitement and terror collide together, thundering in my ears as my heart pounds.
“Esme, I hope you don’t mind this”—he gently tucks fly away strands behind my ear—“but I have every intention of never going another day without talking to you.”
I swallow, shivering pleasantly under the intensity of his stare. I don’t know this man, not truly. He’s measuring up to be better than all the book boyfriends I could ever imagine. Have I gone clinically insane?
Could this transpose to real life back in Juniper Grove? Or Hartfield?
This whole time, we’ve lived thirty minutes from one another.
I’ve lived thirty minutes from my dream guy.
