The question hangs between us. A test—maybe the last one. After everything he’s said about being public, about not hiding, is he actually willing to be seen?
His answer is to kiss me again. Deeper this time.
Through the window, I see Mrs. Henderson from the antique shop stop on the sidewalk. I do not pull away.
Good.
Let the whole town see.
We eventually surface for air, and I’m breathing hard in a way that has nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with what it means.
“Your phone is still buzzing,” I observe.
“I don’t care.”
“Shep has probably started a betting pool about when we’ll get married.”
“Shep can go to hell.” But he’s smiling as he says it. “Although I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Me neither.”
We stand there in the quiet of the salon, his arms around me, our foreheads touching. The chaos of the content shoot has long since faded. The equipment is put away, the crew is gone, and it’s just us in the space where everything changed.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For yesterday. For all the yesterdays before that. For being so scared of losing you that I almost guaranteed it.”
“You’re here now.”
“I should have been here sooner.”
“Probably.” I trace my thumb along his jaw. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters.”
“I’m going to mess up again.” The confession is soft. “Not like yesterday—I won’t do that again. But I’ll say the wrong thing or miss a moment or forget something important. I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I.”
“You’re better than me.”
“I’m really not.” I shake my head. “I spent yesterday hiding in work because I didn’t know how to process you choosing wrong. I convinced myself that professional success could replace personal happiness. I ran from what I actually wanted because it was easier than fighting for it.”
“You weren’t running. You were protecting yourself.”
“Same thing, sometimes.” I meet his eyes. “We’re both figuring this out. That’s okay. That’s what people do.”
His phone buzzes again—more insistently this time. He glances at it, and his expression shifts.
“What?”
“Practice starts in an hour. Shep wants to know if I’m going to show up or if I’m ‘too busy making heart eyes at my girlfriend.’”
“He actually wrote that?”
“He actually wrote that.” Bennett shows me the screen. “He’s also attached approximately fourteen GIFs.”
“That seems excessive.”
