Sliding it out from underneath the magnet keeping it in place, I hold in my fingers the black and white snapshots of Owen and me from the photo booth at Mia’s sister, Rebecca’s wedding. There are four pictures. In the first we have goofy faces, in the second we’re comically serious, in the next we're staring at each other, and in the last our lips are locked. In the bottom right corner, he’s written the time.
12:12
For no apparent reason, other than every five minutes I fall harder for the man whose kitchen I’m standing in, my eyes fill with tears. He not only kept our memory on his fridge for the last ten years, but he noted the time. Because, well... that’s our thing.
The night of Rebecca’s wedding was the second time we hooked up. Back when there was nothing but fun involved. No feelings and certainly no hearts. It was easy back then.
“There you are,” he says, rounding the corner into the kitchen. “Whatcha got there?”
I drop my hand trying to hide what I’ve found, but as soon as his perfect face comes into view, my first tear falls. I meet him in the middle of the room, wrapping my arms around his middle. I bury my face in the cotton covering his chest.
“I know this is a lot, but I got you, baby. I got you.”
He thinks I’m upset that my attempted murderer is out in the wild and not behind bars. And maybe everything has caught up with me and made me more emotional, but this is about the latest bit of evidence that what’s going on between the two of us means as much to him as he’s declared on more than one occasion.
I shake my head, letting him know his assumption is wrong and making an even bigger mess of his shirt.
“Daisy, talk to me. What is it?”
Trying to lighten the mood, I pull his T-shirt over his head, then make a show of wiping my face and nose on it. “Thanks.”
“You’re such a little shit. Now that you have me shirtless, tell me what this is about.”
Holding the strip of four photos between us, I don’t speak, waiting for his reaction.
His mouth lifts at the corners, and his eyes sparkle. “That was a good night. Why are you crying? Because I kept our pictures? You upset you haven’t had me on your fridge to stare at all these years?”
“You kept it all this time.”
“I did.”
He doesn’t make excuses. He isn’t upset that I’ve found his hidden keepsake. He’s not embarrassed in the least.
“Thank you.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear before pressing me so close that the pictures rest over the four-leaf clover above his heart.
“Don’t thank me, baby. I need the reminders to keep me going. Waiting for you is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Lifting onto the toes of my uninjured foot, I kiss him softly. “Thank you for waiting, Owen.”
“I’m stuck, remember? I’m not going anywhere without you,” he says against my lips. Reminding me of his confessions in New York.
My fingers tremble over his bare chest. I’m relieved he’s kissing me back and grateful my lips are one of the few parts of my face that came out unscathed.
The kiss intensifies, and in the blink of an eye, his hands are on my hips. He lifts me and sets me on the counter, sliding between my legs. The lash of his tongue is a balm to my fragile heart, and the scrape of his teeth as he pulls on my bottom lip, is the passion I so desperately need to distract me from the last forty-eight hours.
I’m completely lost in this man.
In this kiss.
In this moment.
I could stay right here, right now, for the rest of my days. But much too soon he cups my face in his hands, causing me to flinch from the pain of his calloused thumbs rubbing over the injuries that litter my face.
His hands drop back to my hips. “Shit, baby. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
