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His eyes search mine once more. Then drop to my mouth. He knows.

I can see the exact second he knows. “You’re sure?”

Tonight there is no alcohol making the room sway.

No six hundred miles between us.

No reason I won’t remember every second.

I nod. “It’s my birthday wish.”

Something almost helpless crosses his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I whisper.

His hand rises to my cheek. Warm fingers settle against my skin, his thumb brushing once beneath my cheekbone.

My eyes close for half a second. When I open them, he’s still there—still waiting.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “How am I supposed to say no to that?”

“You could try.”

His mouth curves. “Don’t want to.”

I smile. “Then don’t.”

His forehead touches mine. And for one suspended second, neither of us moves. Then Bishop whispers, “Happy birthday, Becks.”

Then he seals his lips over mine and I forget how to breathe.

Nothing like the kiss I’ve imagined a thousand different ways over the years. Nothing like the kisses I’ve written about in my pink notebook.

It’s better.

Slow.

Warm.

Almost reverent.

His hand stays against my face while his mouth moves over mine so softly I could be dreaming. Bishop starts to pull back. Absolutely not.

The second kiss isn’t as careful. His other hand finds my waist. Mine slides behind his neck. And there it is again—that buzzing feeling between us from the SUV, except this time when I move closer, he doesn’t stop me. My fingers curl tighter into the front of his shirt. He tastes faintly of mint and something unmistakably Bishop. When his careful kiss turns hungry, the sound he makes against my mouth sends heat ricocheting through me.

His thumb traces my jaw, gentle even as his mouth grows more demanding, and every year I've spent wanting him comes rushing back all at once. When he starts to pull away, I catch him by the shirt and draw him back between my knees, because five years of wondering what kissing Hayes Bishop would feel like has taught me one thing—I'm nowhere near ready for it to end.

Eventually, we have to breathe. Barely. His forehead rests against mine.

I don’t let go of his shirt. And he doesn’t let go of me.

“Still think you need to find another hockey player?” he murmurs.

“Jury’s still out.” I smile, wrapping my legs around his waist. “I’m going to need to collect more evidence.”

His hand tightens at my waist. “Your wish is my command.”

And suddenly I’m thinking about Calgary. Steam curling around me. Bishop’s face glowing from my phone screen.