He took me to a small restaurant, warm lighting, a corner table tucked away from the rest of the room. Over dinner I told himabout my parents. Not about the peonies, he already knew that, but about my dad. The birthday tradition.
“He used to pretend to forget every year. He’d show up at dinner with a gift that was completely wrong on purpose. A baseball glove. A fishing rod. One year he gave me a tire iron. Kept a straight face the whole time while my mom was dying laughing behind her napkin. Then he’d pull out the real gift.”
“What was the real gift?”
“Always a book. Every year. He’d find something he thought I’d love and wrap it in whatever he could find because we never had wrapping paper. He’d watch me open it with this grin on his face like giving me a book was the best thing that happened to him all year.”
I missed them so hard my ribs ached. Ten years and it still hit like this, sudden, sharp, grief living inside your bones just waiting for a reason.
My phone buzzed. Grandma. My throat tightened before I even answered.
“Sorry, I have to take this.”
I stepped into the hallway by the restrooms, leaned against the wall, pressed the phone to my ear.
“Hi, Grandma.”
“Happy birthday, my Andy.” Her voice was warm and my throat closed up, just like that, no warning. She sounded exactly the same as she had when I was six, when I was fifteen andshattered, when she held me together with sheer force of will. “Your mom would be so proud of you. I need you to hear that.”
“I hear it.” My voice cracked on the second word and I pressed my forehead against the wall.
“You sound happy.”
“I am, Grandma. I really am.”
“Good. Be happy. You deserve it, sweetheart. More than anyone I know.”
I stood in that hallway for a minute after we hung up, pressing the heel of my hand against my eyes, breathing until the tightness loosened enough to go back. I wished she was here. Wished I could sit at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, tell her everything, the real everything. Wolves, kings, a man who turned into a dog to sit on my porch because he couldn’t stay away. She’d probably believe me, probably just nod and say, “Well, that explains the size of that damn dog.”
I went back to the table, sat down, face still damp, and I didn’t try to hide it. He didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t hover or push. Just reached across the table, took my hand, held it while I breathed.
After we ate, he reached beside his chair and pulled out a wrapped package. Small, rectangular. My heart stuttered.
I opened it and my hands went still. A book. A hardcover with raised lettering, heavier than my worn paperback at home. I opened the front cover and there on the title page was theauthor’s signature, ink slightly smudged at the tail of the last letter. Real ink, not a print, not a stamp.
My hands were shaking.
“How did you find this?”
“I paid attention.”
“These are impossible to find. She barely does signings, I’ve looked for years.”
“Good thing I’m persistent.”
I let out a breath that was half laugh and half sob. I looked at the signature, looked at him. My dad giving me books every birthday. This man doing the same thing without being told, fitting himself into a tradition he’d learned from a porch confession at midnight.
I leaned across the table, took his face in both hands, kissed him. Knocked the candle sideways and didn’t care. The waiter had to come put it out and I didn’t give a damn about that either. I kissed him until I ran out of breath, then pulled back with wet cheeks and a chest so full it hurt.
“Thank you,” I said. Meant it more than I’d meant anything in a long time.
Back at the estate, in his bedroom, I set the signed copy on the nightstand, carefully, spine up so it wouldn’t crease, and turned to him. He was standing by the bed and the look on his face was different tonight. Softer. Slower. Like the urgency that usually drove us had burned down to something quieter.
His hands cupped my face, thumbs brushing over my dimple, those amber eyes holding mine without a hint of rush. That mix of possession and care that always got under my skin, making my chest ache in a way I wasn’t used to.
He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned in and kissed me slow, lips parting mine like he had all night. His tongue slid against mine, tasting like the wine from dinner, and I melted into it, my hands fisting his shirt. When he pulled back, his voice came out low, rough around the edges. “You look beautiful tonight, Andrea. That dress has been killing me since you walked in.”
I swallowed, trying for my usual snark, but it came out breathy. “Yeah? You clean up pretty good yourself.” He just chuckled, that deep rumble that vibrated through me, and started on the buttons of my dress. One by one, deliberate, his mouth following each inch of exposed skin. He kissed my collarbone first, tongue flicking out to taste the salt there, then up to my throat where my pulse hammered. “This,” he murmured against my skin, nipping lightly, “right here. I can feel how fast your heart’s going. For me?”
