Chapter thirty-eight
Tessa
The words hang in the air between us.
I choose you.
My breath catches.
George is watching me like he's handed me a live grenade. He's very still, very alert, committed to the action but not entirely sure he hasn't made a catastrophic miscalculation.
His hands are slightly unsteady at his sides.
That's the thing that gets me. He didn't engineer this moment. He didn't stress-test it or build in contingencies.
I take one breath. And then I take a step toward him.
His eyes track the movement like he's afraid he's misreading it, like he might have to revise his interpretation at any moment. I don't make him.
The distance between us closes, and I notice, absurdly, that he still has a small crease on his collar from where he'd been tugging at it during the ceremony.
I close the last of the space between us and kiss him.
For a second, it feels like stepping off something. Like there should be a drop, a consequence, a moment where I reconsider.
There isn’t.
He goes still for half a heartbeat and then he’s there, fully. His restraint is gone. Like he is finally letting go of it.
His hand comes up to the side of my face.
Behind us, the reception murmurs.
A low whistle cuts through the room, followed by a theatrical slow clap that could only belong to Daniel. I pull back just enough to breathe, my forehead still nearly touching George's, his thumb still resting at my cheekbone. He lets out a short, undone sound that is almost a laugh.
"Hi," he says.
It is possibly the least adequate thing anyone has ever said. It is also, somehow, perfect.
"Hi," I say back, and I'm smiling before I can stop it, which is a sensation I've been actively resisting for the better part of a month.
The room is starting to stir around us. I can feel it. Eleanor, near the centerpiece of white dahlias, makes absolutely no effort whatsoever to appear casual. Her whole face is glowing.
I take his hand, fingers threading through his, and feel him squeeze back like punctuation.
"Come on," I say.
He blinks at me. He's still slightly recalibrating, still wearing that stunned, endearing expression I have absolutely no professional category for. His gaze drifts toward the side exit with a hopefulness so transparent it's almost touching. He wants a hallway. Five minutes. Somewhere that isn't a room full of people who are already forming opinions and will absolutely be sharing them later.
Too bad that is not my plan. I tug him forward into the room.
"Where are we going?" he asks.
"Back to your speech," I tell him.
He stares at me. The look is pure incredulity, the kind that involves a brief, silent negotiation with the universe. I tug him forward before he can open that negotiation out loud.
We step back into the reception together, and the room's attention snaps toward us like a compass needle finding north. Their attention is instant, unanimous, and slightly hungry.
