The crowd erupts in laughter and cheers. Someone starts chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” and within seconds, the entire boutique has taken up the refrain.
Jo and I look at each other. She’s biting her lip to keep from laughing, her eyes dancing with mischief and heat.
“They’re not going to stop,” she says.
“They’re really not.” I can feel every eye in the room on us. Can see phones raised, ready to capture this moment for posterity and probably the town Facebook page.
“We could give them what they want,” she suggests, and there’s challenge in her voice. Challenge and want and the same desperate edge I’m feeling.
“Is that what you want?” I step closer, backing her against the counter. Vaguely aware that we’re creating a spectacle and completely unable to care. “For me to kiss you in front of everyone?”
“I want you to kiss me every day.” The words are barely a whisper, meant only for me. “But I’ll settle for starting right now.”
That snaps the last thread of my control.
I cup her face, angle her mouth up to mine, and kiss her like I’ve been dying to for four endless days. She makes a sound of pure surrender, her hands fisting in my uniform, pulling me closer as she opens for me.
When we finally break apart—only because we need oxygen—the entire boutique erupts in applause.
“Well,” Jo says, breathless and flushed and beautiful. “That’s one way to make the festival memorable.”
“Just following community standards.” I rest my forehead against hers, both of us grinning like idiots. “Section 143. Grumpy men need kisses.”
“That’s still not a real code.”
“Should be.”
The rest of the festival passes in a blur of perfectly executed rotations, happy crowds, and stolen moments with Jo. The Valentine’s Trail is a massive success. Every business in town is packed, the outdoor bonfire is drawing hundreds, and not a single fire code has been violated.
I should be proud. I am proud.
But mostly, I’m just impatient for everyone to leave so I can have Jo to myself.
By the time the sun sets and the crowds thin to just family and close friends, I’m wound so tight I might actually combust. Jo has been driving me insane all day. Brushing past me with deliberate intent, shooting me looks that promise everything, whispering suggestions about what she wants to do when we’re alone that make my blood run hot.
“Dad.” Savannah appears at my elbow, grinning. “You look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin.”
“Your observation skills are noted.”
“She’s good for you.” My daughter nods toward where Jo is laughing with the book club ladies. “I haven’t seen you this alive in years.”
“She’s chaos personified.”
“You need chaos. You’ve been too controlled since Mom died.” Savannah squeezes my arm. “Let yourself be happy, Dad. You deserve it.”
After she walks away, I stand there watching Jo charm everyone around her, and realize my daughter is right. I do deserve happiness. And more importantly, Jo deserves someone who will cherish her dreams while keeping her safe.
Someone who will push back when she’s reckless and celebrate when she’s brilliant.
Someone who will kiss her until she forgets about occupancy limits and love her until she knows she’s worth everything.
I can be that someone.
I want to be that someone.
As the last of the festival-goers drift away, I catch Jo’s hand. “Come with me.”
“Where?” But she’s already following, trust implicit in the way her fingers thread through mine.
