Page 177 of Hard Pass

I turn and forget how to breathe.

Dublin stands at the bottom of the stairs in a pale blue bikini and a flowing white sarong tied low on her hips. Her hair is damp and falling around her shoulders like she just walked off a beach somewhere.

I stare at her. Then at the room. Then back at her.

And start laughing.

“What in the world is happening?” I ask.

She lifts one shoulder. “Welcome to Bali.”

I laugh again because there’s a fake tropical drink on the coffee table with a slice of pineapple hanging off the rim.

Because one of my patio chairs is somehow in the living room now.

Because she’s standing there looking nervous despite this insanity.

And because somewhere between leaving the bar and walking through this door, she turned my house into . . .

“Bali?” I ask.

“If we can’t go there,” she says softly, “I figured I’d bring it to you.”

God.

I look around again, taking it in more carefully.

“You moved every plant in the house,” I say.

“I wanted ambiance.”

“You moved the patio furniture in.”

“It’s island-ish.”

“Is that sand in that vase?” I scrunch my eyes. “Where did you get sand?”

“I crushed up the graham crackers you had in the pantry,” she says. “Do you know how hard it is to fake tropical décor at midnight?”

This woman. This impossible, headstrong, beautiful woman. “You did all this?”

“Obviously,” she says.

The laughter fades, and it’s replaced by something warmer. Significant. Way more intense.

I take a step toward her. “What are you doing, Dublin?”

She exhales slowly, fingers twisting in the edge of her sarong before she holds them still and meets my eyes. “I messed up. I did it wrong,” she says. “I made tonight about me. About my fear. My panic. My inability to process things at a normal human speed. It should have been about you. About what you said. And what that took.”

“Dublin—”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Let me finish before I lose my nerve.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

Her words punch the air out of my lungs.