“Of course you have.”
“That’s what you pay me for, isn’t it?”
“Among other things.”
My head whips toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.“Nothing,” is what he settles on.
“Good.”
More silence. Each one is worse than the one before it. I can feel him gearing up to say something. His jaw is tight, his hands are fidgeting with the thermos lid, and there’s this energy radiating off him that I’ve come to recognize as Bastian Hale Trying Not To Say What He Actually Wants To Say.
“Look,” he begins awkwardly, “about today—or, fuck, I guess it was yesterday now—but anyway, about?—”
I stop him by grabbing his wrist under the blankets. My other hand is pointing out at the horizon. “Look!”
He frowns and turns to follow my gaze. “What are you?—”
But he freezes when he sees it.
The sun has poked above the surface of the water. It’s just a tiny sliver, but as soon as it’s reared its head, the whole sky seems to sigh and give up its deepest blacks and purples. We both sit in silence as it keeps prying open the lid of the night to make room for morning. Gold, tangerine, flamingo—it’s unseasonably fiery. Chicago in February is usually a pure gray affair. This is anything but that.
My hand stays clamped on his wrist. I don’t dare let go.
The sun rises. We both breathe in sync. Slow inhale. Slower exhale.
Heated skin beneath my fingertips.
Fire in the sky, golden and gorgeous.
“Check,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
Bastian looks at me. “Check?”
“Off the list,” I explain. “Sunrise on the lakefront—check.”
He nods slowly. “Did it live up to your expectations?”
I don’t answer right away. I’m not looking at the sunrise anymore, either—I’m looking at him, head tilted to one side like I need to find the right angle to view him from. In this light, his eyes are molten bronze, reflecting the same fire that’s soaking the sky.
“It did,” I say at last. “I’ll remember this one forever.”
I don’t know who makes the first move. There’s a longing churning inside me that’s been building since the elevator, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it was me. But there’s something in Bastian’s eyes, something desperate and hungry, so, shit, maybe it’s him. I don’t know.
I just know that we’re leaning, we’re leaning, we’re leaning—and then, all of the sudden, there’s no more room left to lean.
There’s just the brush of his lips against mine. Soft. Impossibly soft. Gentle, too. Like he’s afraid I might break.
He deepens the kiss. His hand slides up to cup the back of my neck. That same spot from the elevator, a spot that seems to fit perfectly in his palm.
My fingers tighten on his wrist, like before, then migrate to his chest, fisting in his shirt. A tiny sigh escapes me that I didn’t mean to let out.
The blankets rustle as we shift. He pulls me horizontally until we’re lying in the trunk.
I’m beneath him now. We’re a tangle of limbs and layers, my marshmallow coat bunching between us. His hand finds the zipper and drags it down. Then the zipper below that. Then the one below that, too.
I wriggle out of my layers until I’m wearing only the pullover he gave me what feels like a lifetime ago.
