Instead, I freeze.
Standing there are Calvin and Desmond.
“What?” I gasp, before a grin overtakes my face. “You’re here?!”
I throw myself into Calvin’s arms. He catches me easily, strong hands bracing my back as I loop my arms around his neck, holding on like I never want to let go. His lips find mine, deep, warm, and achingly familiar. Home.
We’re so wrapped up in each other, we barely hear Desmond clearing his throat behind us.
Calvin reluctantly breaks the kiss, though his hands stay firm on my waist.
“I thought you had a business meeting in New York,” I say.
“You think I’d miss your 21st, Peach?” he teases, brushing his lips against mine again. “Not a chance.”
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I breathe.
“I’m here too, you know,” Desmond pipes up, arms spread. “Where’s my birthday hug?”
Calvin narrows his eyes. “You can wave at him from here,” he mutters, pulling me closer.
I roll my eyes and wriggle free. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I hug Desmond, who, to piss his brother off, leans in and says, “Mmm. You smell good.”
“Fuck you,” Calvin snaps, not really mad, and tugs me back with a glare.
“You look insane in that dress,” Calvin says, his eyes roaming over me in a way that makes my skin tingle.
“Thank you.” My cheeks heating under his gaze.
Desmond clears his throat again, this time louder, and very much on purpose.
Calvin sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Right, uh, forgot something in the car. Be right back.”
He steps out, leaving me alone with Desmond.
The room quiets, and when I glance at him, his usual teasing look has faded.
“You’re good for him,” he says.
I blink, caught off guard. We’ve never had a moment like this, just us.
“He’s never been like this with anyone else,” he continues.
“I’m sure that’s not?—”
“No, it is,” he cuts in. “He’s had plenty of flings. Girlfriends, if you could call them that. But none of them ever made him light up the way you do. He’s… different now. Happier. He actually laughs like a real person.” Desmond chuckles under his breath. “It’s wild.”
A shy smile tugs at my lips. “I really love him,” I say.
“I know you do,” Desmond replies. “And he loves you. I know because no one knows my brother better than I do. Also, it’s literally all he talked about from New York to Paris. Do you know how long that flight is, Blair?” he asks, like he genuinely wants an answer.
I let out a soft laugh. “No.”
“Eight and a half hours, Blair. Eight. And the man usually doesn’t say more than ten words at a time. But for eight straight hours, it was your laugh this, your smile that, howyou scrunch your nose when you’re thinking too hard. I was this close to jumping out of the plane,” he says, holding his fingers a sliver apart.
I laugh again, but this time there’s a blush creeping up my neck, and something softer curling in my chest.
