Lucy squeals again, drops her folders and papers, and leans over the center console, wrapping her arms around me, “I think I’m going to pass out.”
“Not if you make us crash first,” I laugh, righting the car and pushing her away gently, settling my hand on the back of her neck. She’s practically vibrating with excitement.
“I don’t even care what we eat,” she bubbles, gathering up the papers again. “We could get fast food for all I care?—”
I pull into the parking lot for the airfield and we step out. From the trunk, I retrieve her luggage, mine, and the cooler I packed.
“How about a picnic?” I ask, lifting it. “Something to tide us over on the plane.”
Lucy shakes her head, then tucks herself under my arm as we walk toward security. “I can’t believe this. It’s—it’s unreal.”
I kiss the top of her head.
Logically, I know about all the neural and hormonal processes for a feeling like this. Dopamine for wanting, high cortisol for the panicking sensation, low serotonin for obsession. Oxytocin, like what mothers and babies share for closeness, and vasopressin to transfer that short-term infatuation to long-term bonding.
They’re all knocking around in my brain and body right now. I’ve surely experienced those chemicals, in a non-romantic way, building the relationship between Cole and Dane over the years. And now here they are, repeating the process but romantically, with the miraculous woman under my arm.
Knowing the processes doesn’t make it feel any less miraculous.
The miracle of finally meeting someone—a woman, specifically, a romantic interest—whom I feel comfortable with. A woman to love, spend time with. Who understands the relationship between Dane, Nico, and me. Who wants to be a part of it, too. Who can be the centerpiece of this thing.
We board the plane, Lucy looking far more comfortable with the steps now than when I first met her. I spread out a blanket on the floor of the plane, set up the picnic, wait to pour the champagne until we’re in the air.
“This is wonderful,” she says, tucking her legs under herself and looking at me so fondly it makes my chest tight. “Thank you, Cole.”
I raise my glass to her, “Thank you, Lucy. And don’t worry—you can tell Nico and Dane it was awful.”
Lucy laughs, and I lean in to kiss her, and I realize I haven’t thought aboutthe problemsince the moment I picked her upfrom the airport. For hours, she’s been the only thing in my mind.
And it feels good.
Chapter 42
Lucy
Iwill not pick a best date, just like I could never pick one of them as my favorite.
But I also can’t deny the way it feels, for Cole to look at me and see me so clearly. It’s like he peered into my head and plucked up fantasies I didn’t even know enough to have.
When the picnic is finished, Cole pushes me down on the blanket and kisses me, draping his body over mine. He’s hard where I’m soft, hot where I’m cool, and I sink into the kiss, becoming nothing more than breath and sensation.
Cole isimpossiblyhandsome, and I see it now, best, in the slanting light through the windows, in the slope of his biceps and the hidden strength under his simple clothes. His hair is longer now, falling near his shoulders in spiraling, messy curls. He’s let his facial hair grow out too, so I can feel it scraping against my cheek as he nuzzles his face against me, into the crook of my neck.
It doesn’t go further than the kissing, than his warm hand on my breast over my sweater, because then we’re touching down in Europe, and he’s pulling me to my feet, helping me fix my hair and clothes.
Dane and Nico wear who they are on the outside, for the most part. Dane, strong, capable, and serious. Nico, flashy and fun, all boyish grins and a hand in his hair.
But Cole is quieter. There’s a certain reward to being let in to really see him.
At each museum we visit, there’s a representative there to greet us. Each museum is empty, devoid of the normal crowds that make it take forever to get through. I have an unobstructed view of the Mona Lisa. I can linger as long as I want on each piece.
While I’ve never really been that interested in getting a degree in art history, I enjoy the guides telling me about the paintings, speculating on what an artist was thinking, providing us with the context and history that show each piece in a new light.
Painted during the bombings of World War II, or while the artist was pregnant, or during one of the many art renaissances throughout the world.
The Louvre, specifically, leaves me feeling breathless after a miraculous tour. I paused specifically in front ofThe Winged Victory of Samothrace, taken with the sheer skill it took to create movement from stone. To make a woman’s body so realistically, to emulate that feeling of a breeze against fabric so completely.
“A peculiar piece,” Viktor, the guide, said, his voice a respectful murmur. “In that the sight before you was created both by the artist and the ravages of time. The original surely would have had arms and a head, but this is how they recovered it, so this is how it remains.”
