Except for the times when I don’t want her to be gentle.
After carefully placing my guitar back in its case, she reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together and pulling me up to stand with her. “That was beautiful,” she says. Then she shakes her head. “Actually, beautiful is a wholly inadequate word for what that song was. But I’m not a lyricist like you. So I don’t have the fancy words to tell you how I felt about it... or how I feel about you.”
My breath catches in my throat, but I manage to say, “I don’t need anything fancy.”
She smiles softly at that. “You deserve it, though.”
“All I want is something real.”
I want to know thatthisis real. That I’m not the only one feeling it.
“I’d like to think I’ve been real with you from the start,” she says.
I let out a laugh, thinking of how real she treated me when we first met. She didn’t treat me like a celebrity, but simply like a regular person she kept finding in her way. “You have,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “No, not entirely. I couldn’t be real with you if I wasn’t being real with myself. I tried to convince myself that this was nothing more than attraction, that it was only meant to be temporary. That it couldn’t be anything more. I really believed I wouldn’t be capable of giving my heart to someone again. That I would never want to.”
My own heart starts beating more rapidly at her words.
“But you made it so easy,” she continues, her thumb sweeping over theback of my hand. “It was so easy I didn’t even realize it was happening until it was too late.”
I open my mouth to tell her I feel the same, but she raises her free hand and pushes her index finger against my lips. I press a kiss to it without even thinking, and she rewards me with a smile.
Moving her hand down to my waist, she says, “I don’t want to let how my ex treated me shape who I am and hold me back from finding something better. I’m not afraid that you’d ever intentionally hurt me or take advantage of me the way she did.”
“I won’t,” I can’t help but cut in.
She gives my waist a light squeeze. “I know. But Ihavebeen holding back, because I thought saying goodbye was inevitable. In your song, you’re asking me not to make you say goodbye, but I’m not the one who would be going anywhere. You are. It’s going to beyourchoice whether or not you leave.”
“You’re right, it is,” I say, “And that’s what I wanted to tell you. I’ve already decided. I chooseyou.”
“You do?” The tinge of uncertainty in her voice has me dying to wrap my arms around her and kiss her until she believes me. But I need something from her first.
“I do. I choose you,” I tell her again. “But it’s not only up to me. You have a choice here too. And I’m asking you to choose me back.”
Her eyes widen slightly at that. Like she didn’t realize this is a two-person decision. Then with an almost laugh, she says, “Sweetheart,” as if it’s her answer. And in a way, it is.
I love when she calls me Strawberry, because nobody’s ever called me that before. It’s something unique, something that’s ours alone. But I’ve spent most of my career being referred to as America’s Country Sweetheart. That word has represented the image I’ve needed to maintain, the kind of person I made sure to always be so that people would like me. It’s part of a title I’ve come to resent.
Whenshecalls me sweetheart, though, it means something entirely different. It’s not an endearment I have to work to earn. It’s simply how she sees me when all I’m doing is being myself. It’s what I am to her.It’s real.
The way I feel when she looks at me and says that one word is all the answer I need. And in case it wasn’t, the way she takes my face with both hands and kisses me now certainly is.
I kiss her back with both desperation and ease in equal measure, my mind and body singing with the understanding that I’ve finally found what I’ve been searching for. That elusive perfect chord.
“Is this real?” The quiet words slip past my lips as our mouths part. I don’t mean to question it—it’s only that I’m so used to thinking I’ve found that chord and getting it wrong. So no matter how sure I am that it’s right this time, I can’t help still feeling the tiniest bit cautious.
Addison cards her fingers through my hair and cradles the back of my head. “It’s real, Strawberry. And I don’t want to fight it anymore. I’m in love with you.”
I toss that last bit of caution to the wind as I throw my arms around her. I hug her tightly to me, burying my face in her neck. She smells a little like bacon and breakfast waffles, but I inhale deeply to get to the sweetness underneath.
Pulling back enough to look in her eyes, I tell her, “I love you. And I’m going to figure out a way to stay here with you.”
I’ll do anything I need to so I can be with her. Because she’s worth more than money or fame to me. She’s worth anything I have to give up. All I need is her brown eyes looking at me like I’m worth it all too.
“I’m tired of worrying more about what the world wants from me than about what I want,” I go on. “I want you. I want this right here. I want to play my guitar on your front porch in the afternoon and dance with you in the evening in the living room while a record plays. I want you to keep teaching me more skills in the kitchen, so you don’t have to do all thecooking at work and then when you get home too. And I want to spend hours in bed with you exploring every inch of your body.”
“That sounds good to me,” she says, her smile lighting up her whole face. “But we’ve never danced in the living room before.”
