Page 342

“You haven't even read the dedication.”

He freezes. “There's a dedication?”

“Maybe.”

He opens the manuscript before I can stop him.

On the first page, beneath a single line of type, I've written:

For the boy who made me believe in happy endings long before he believed in them himself.

Bishop doesn't speak.

I look at his face and wish, just for a second, that I could edit real life the way I edit a chapter. Maybe take out the silence. Maybe make myself a little braver.

Then he closes the manuscript and rests his forehead against mine.

“I was your happy ending?” he whispers.

“You were always the boy I wanted in it.”

His breath catches. “Becks.”

“And for a long time, I thought I'd have to write myself a different one.”

“Not anymore.” He kisses me once, softly. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

By the time we've finished our champagne, Bishop has traded his towel for a pair of black boxer briefs, which is distracting enough on its own. But then he starts rearranging the pillows on the bed.

I watch from my spot near the dresser, wrapped in one of his oversized T-shirts.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable.”

“For what?”

He gives me a look. “Come here.”

I climb onto the bed.

He props several pillows against the headboard and settles beside me, pulling me back against his chest. His skin is warm beneath my cheek. I stretch my legs across the comforter.

“Okay,” I say. “What now?”

He reaches for the manuscript.

I sit up so fast I nearly headbutt him. “Right now?”

“You gave me a book on Valentine's Day, Becks. Seems rude not to read it.”

“Most people start at chapter one.”

“I was going to.” He flips a few pages. “But somebody left a green ribbon sticking out of chapter twenty-three.”

My stomach drops. I forgot the bookmark. “That's just where I stopped editing.”

“Uh-huh.”