Page 57

“He … does,” I say, pausing as I lay out silverware. I know Ben cares for me a lot, that he needs me. Love? Maybe. If he’s willing to decide our future already, it seems so. “Has he always been so reluctant to share anything?”

“To an extent, yes,” Mrs. Mitchell says, folding a few linen napkins and handing them over to me to slide under the silverware. “But since he came back, I have to drag everything out of him. I suppose that sort of traumatic experience can do that to a person.”

I nod my agreement. Ben spent so long hiding everything about himself, and if it’s already in his nature to do that, having that necessity proved to him by people like Miss Swanson likely made it worse.

Mrs. Mitchell reaches for my hand across the table. “Dear, I think your mother would tell you to follow your heart and go where it takes you.”

That does sound like the dreamy kind of thing my mother would say. I squeeze Mrs. Mitchell’s hand back, then drop it and turn to arrange the glasses I’ve set out, trying not to let my next thoughts play on my face. I would have told my mother about Quint, and she, in turn, would’ve questioned me if I still loved him as well. And if following my heart meant staying in the present—as if there were a choice.

“Thank you,” I say genuinely when I turn back to Mrs. Mitchell.

Mrs. Mitchell reaches out and side-hugs me. “Anytime.”

Ben’s theory on my memories of Quint seems right. I can’t forget him, but it’s getting harder than ever to grasp the now mere wisps of memories of us, hard enough that I stop trying unless one wakes me in the night in the form of a vivid dream and leaves me unable to sleep because I can still feel his arms wrapped around me or the brush of his lips against my cheek.

As the months pass, though, it happens less and less, and I make myself be okay with that. I won’t seek those dreams out, and I’ll leave Quint in the past, where he belongs.

I find myself content with the path of my life. Thanks to the training, I’m strong and capable. If a mission to the past comes up in the future, Ben will have no choice but to accept me as a full partner. When Burke came to check our progress before Christmas, even he gave me a satisfied nod after I successfully defended myself against him.

And the more I think about Europe, the easier it is to picture flying Ben’s family to Paris when we go at the end of May. Maybe we will. Maybe we won’t. I’m grateful for the patient way Ben remarks on it.

“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be too.” He always follows declarations like that with that melt-me-completely smile I’m addicted to. His chivalry will never die, I discover—opening doors, fixing things around my condo without asking, driving us everywhere—but without the tension and the danger of a time-traveling mission, I find his overprotectiveness is mild and manageable with a little reprimand when he gets out of hand.

So one day during Morgan’s lunch break when she’s stopped by the library to spend it with me, we flip through the pages of a book I found on traveling in France, and I envision myself in wedding dresses at the various locations, checking to see how much anxiety thinking about it causes me. I nod to myself as I squint at a picture of the Amiens Cathedral.

Doable. Not yet, but doable.

Morgan leans over the reference desk at the library, where I spend most of my time when I work there, turning the page. “You’re going to have so much fun. I wish I could come.”

“The invitation still stands, you know.” Our trip to Europe isn’t exactly romantic, but work keeps Morgan from being able to commit to such a lengthy vacation. “You could just come for a week or so. His sister keeps hinting that she wants to come too.” I chuckle as I return to checking in some books.

“His sister is hinting at more than that.” Morgan snorts with laughter, and I shake my head.

“His whole family is.”

“Because you’re an amazing catch. And so is he, come to think of it. He’s perfect—generous and thoughtful and so rich. Crazy as it sounds for you to want to marry a guy after a few months, you might want to lock that in.” She flips a page in the book and adjusts on her stool.

It’s complicated, I wish I could say, but I can’t tell Morgan the complications—that as hard as I’m falling for Ben every day, I want to be free of my longing for Quint before we take this next step. “I just want some time to make sure.”

“A wise choice.” She stands up. “Unfortunately, my lunch hour is over.” She leans in to hug me.

I wave as she leaves, then lift the book about France off the counter, flipping through some of the pages myself, imagining staying with Ben in one of the pretty chateaus he suggested we rent for part of our stay in France. He wore a sly smile when he suggested it, the hint of “for our honeymoon” in his expression, though he didn’t say it out loud. As promised, he’s never pushed. He might let his family tease, he might even join in, but at the end of the day, I never feel pressured to move our relationship any faster than it’s already moving.

I turn to a picture, gasping when I recognize the room, impossible as that is, and a blush rises to my face at the memory that darts across my subconscious. Waking up in this bed next to my husband.

Quint.

It’s gone before it can fully form. I suck in a breath and snap the book shut, letting the memory flit away even though it pains me to do so. I reach for my phone on the desk and stare at the background picture for thirty seconds to clear my brain—Ben, with his arms around me, smush-kissing my cheek. I have my eyes closed, half-turned to him. I look like I’m in love.

I nod resolutely to myself before setting it aside and going back to checking in books. That’s my real life. Those are my real memories.

Chapter Eighteen

“If you let me open my present now, what am I supposed to open tomorrow morning at your parents’ house?” I ask, holding Ben’s hand as he leads me, blindfolded, down the hallway of his house from the garage to the living room.

“I’m letting you open one of your presents,” he says with a chuckle.

“Ben. We set a limit.” I let out a huff of annoyance.