“Oh, honey,” Ramona said, sliding her hands down April’s arms and squeezing.
But April wasn’t crying over Elena, or even the fact that she’d left April for Daphne.
No, this was about Daphne herself. Independent from Elena, from April, even, from the Devon.
Just Daphne. Her smile, her laugh, the way she wanted to feel everything, do everything, no matter how long she’d spent afraid of those very same things. The way she kissed April like no one else in the world mattered or even existed. How she touched April’s face and whispered against her mouth. How she talked to Bob in the cutest pet voice April had ever heard, calling him her perfect boy.
The way she painted.
The way she held April’s hand, always tangling them together so two fingers rested between April’s thumb and forefinger.
The way she snored a little when she’d had a drink.
The way it took her a full thirty minutes to wash her hair.
“I think…” April said, then couldn’t get it out. She pressed her lips together, squeezed back the tears. Because she didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to admit it. Not tonight, when Daphne was talking to their ex right this very second.
The ex who Daphne had only been away from for a little over two months.
The ex who was gorgeous and put together and wealthy and refined.
Still, the truth was the truth, and April knew she was safe here. No matter what Ramona had said about her and Daphne earlier that night, she was safe. Besides, Ramona was right—April and Daphne probably weren’t the best idea. But none of that mattered, because despite how much April had tried to protect herself against this very feeling for the last three years, this kind of vulnerability, here she was.
“I think I might be in love with her,” April finally said, pressing her hands to her warming cheeks.
And Ramona just rubbed April’s arms and nodded. “I know, honey. I know.”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Daphne flinched asthe art studio door fell shut behind April. Her hands felt sweaty, her entire body trembling as though she were cold, even though it was stifling in here, the air-conditioning programmed to shut off at night.
Elena exhaled loudly. “Well, that was awkward.”
Daphne frowned. “What did you expect?”
“I expected to come here and talk to you, not an ex from three years—”
“Just stop.”
Elena’s expression froze at Daphne’s sharp tone, but then dropped, her features relaxing with realization. “You and April,” she said.
It wasn’t a question, and Daphne didn’t plan on answering it. It was none of Elena’s business, first of all. Secondly, Daphne had no idea what she’d say anyway.
She and April…what?
One thing she did know—April had been upset when she’d left here, and Daphne couldn’t blame her. Daphne wanted to go after her, wanted to hold her and get mad with her.
How dare Elena show up like this and ask to speak to Daphne. How dare Elena do so many things, but still, Daphne’s legs felt locked in place, her heart in her throat, her stomach somewhere near her feet.
Because Elena was here. Even after the hell she’d put Daphne through the last two months, she’d chased Daphne down on her birthday, traveled to Clover Lake, waited for hours in the art studio for her.
Forher.
“Daphne,” Elena said, a familiar sweet plea to her tone.
And god, Daphne tried to stop it, but her eyes fluttered closed at that voice, like a whispered declaration of love on a lazy Saturday morning.
