I brighten. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think you’d sound great.”
My chest swells. It’s a powerful song. I hope I can do it justice.
As we look towards the sea, I feel a pinprick of guilt for not mentioning my own song, like a secret tucked away.
“Beautiful out here, isn’t it?” he murmurs.
“It is.”
His gaze flicks to me. “You know…you look like you belong here,” he says softly. “In this town. On my balcony. With me.”
“Oh?” My heart rate picks up, feeling the sudden urge to flee.
“Yeah. You do.”
He moves closer—too close—tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I think we make a great team.”
I swallow, caught in his gaze, irises ethereal in the moonlight. He’s so close I can make out every whisker on his jaw, every highlight in his dark curls, every angle of his chiselled features.
“Don’t you think?” he whispers, thumb brushing my cheek.
The space between us hums, his scent warm and heady.
“Think what?” I stammer. Part of me wants to step back. A more curious, traitorous part urges me to stay still.
“I asked, don’t you think we make a good team?” he repeats.
“Oh. Sure,” I say automatically. “We do…”
His lips are on mine before I’ve fully registered it.
I freeze as his mouth moves, panic rising as every muscle locks tight.
Then I remember to kiss him back—small, uncertain pecks. No fireworks. His stubble rasps as he deepens the kiss. I respond just enough not to be inanimate, my mind stumbling.
I thought to love is to burn, to be on fire. But this could not feel further from that, and when Willoughby finally pulls away, all I feel is cold relief.That, and my lips tingle, though not exactly how I’d hoped. It’s still miles better than the small, inadequate version of myself I was with Toby. If only that were enough.
“Wow,” Willoughby says with a self-satisfied grin. “Not bad, eh?”
I force a smile through clenched teeth and nod.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe Toby broke something in me that can’t be fixed.
Willoughby puts an arm around me as we look out over the balcony. “Could you see yourself living here, Lil?”
“I don’t know,” I say, resisting the urge to pull away. This might be as good as it ever gets, but I wish I were anywhere else.
“Hey, I have a name for our duo. Ready?”
“Err…yes?”
He pauses dramatically before pronouncing, “Lilloughby.” When I don’t react, he adds, “It’s a mash-up of our names!”
I don’t know what to say. Especially when he spells it. ‘Lillaby’ I could maybe get behind. It’s kind of cute. But ‘Lilloughby’ makes me want to leap off the balcony.
When the food arrives, I’m grateful for the excuse to slide from his grasp and sit on the opposite end of the couch. He’s too focused on his pizza to notice my discomfort—or that I’m only eating garlic bread.
