He nodded. “When you got to UT, every time I saw you, you were full of stories about guys and dates and stuff with Sophie. I was happy for you. I’m not really clear on . . . I don’t know what happened over the next few years. I mean, I saw you when you were over at Dave’s. Then you started tagging along on our trips, but that was cool. I was glad whatever had taken over my brain when you were a senior had gone away.”
“I don’t think that’s right at all. I think you’ve seen me as seventeen for the last eight years. Why else would you think you had to move in down the hall to babysit me? I was fine, Will. I was totally fine until you showed up.”
“When Dave said he was marrying Jessica and heading out to Qatar for work, he asked me to keep an eye on you. I think he meant check in on you from time to time, like over the phone, be available if your car ran out of oil or something.”
I glared at him. “You idiots taught me how to change my oil before Dave would teach me to drive.”
“Right.” He scrubbed his hand over his hair, leaving a few strands poking out. “I know that. I knew that you could take care of yourself, but at some level, I worried because he worried. I could tell how much it stressed him out to leave, and suddenly I was volunteering to take over his apartment lease. I thought it would be fine. It seemed fine. It seemed like everything was normal between us until . . . until it wasn’t.”
“You mean until I ruined it all with another confession.”
“Yeah. I mean, no. It was just that I’d convinced myself I was here on Dave’s behalf even though that was way more than he’d asked of me. And I was so shocked when you told me the truth. I mean, I’d been feeling myself getting so used to having you around that I’d decided the best thing I could do was go on a dating streak—”
“Wait, that’s why you did it? That’s why you came up with the marriage plan?”
“You were getting into here again,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut and tapping his forehead. Then he pinned me with his stare. “I needed you out. Maybe you understand how that feels.”
“But why didn’t you say something? Or put a signal out? Why didn’t you confess something when I ran into your place babbling like an idiot weeks ago? I was dying inside, Will. Your dates were killing me.”
“Because I didn’t want to get on Dave’s hit list!” He groaned in frustration. “There is no going back now. None. I can’t be just friends with you. And he’s going to think I moved into his place for this, to seduce you while he was away. And he’s going to kill me.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said. “On any of that.”
He flushed but nodded. “You see what I mean? I screw it up every time I try to explain to you.”
“And the carving?” I asked. What did infinity mean?
“Our histories are so wrapped up together. I don’t know when exactly my feelings started. I don’t think they’re ever going to end. I don’t want them to. I’m not going to fight them anymore.”
I fell. All the way off the edge of sanity, down, down, down.
“What about Dave?”
“This might be the unforgivable sin, to mess with his precious Hanny.”
“Is that what you plan to do? Play and move on?”
“Is that what you think?” His eyes flashed. “Is that what you’re getting out of all of this?”
I shook my head and scooted toward him on the couch, resting my hand on his forearm. He tensed beneath my palm, and the falling turned to floating, but my stomach stayed wild, churning, flipping. “No. That’s not what I’m getting out of this at all.”
He met my eyes, his gaze steady, a challenge creeping in. “Then what are you getting out of it?”
I brushed the sculpture and let my hand fall back into my lap. “A gift. This. But more.” I slid closer and threaded my fingers through his hair, pulling him toward me. “So much more.” His pulse pounded at his temples, and I could feel it against my wrist. My breath sped up to match it, afraid to believe him but wanting to with everything I had in me. “It feels like I’m getting everything I ever wanted. Am I?”
He didn’t wait for me to kiss him, dipping his head and pulling me toward him in one move, the kiss saying everything that he thought his words hadn’t. Joy exploded through me.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “No one’s ever handed me a greater gift than when you stormed in and told me how you felt, and I set it aside. I freaked out.”
“I’m going to let you work that off,” I said, rising to my knees so I had some height on him. He grinned and pulled my head down for more kisses, and I gave them out and drank them in, delirious with living out the daydream I’d had a thousand times, dizzy with how much better the reality was.
When I finally pulled away, I framed his face in my hands, a perfect snapshot of all I would ever need. “You’re better with words than you think you are.”
He pressed down on my shoulders with the lightest of touches until I was eye level with him again. “I didn’t give you all my words yet. I owe you a few more.” He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through my hair, combing it out of the way, pulling it back to spill around my face, then brushing it over my shoulders again. Finally his hands stilled, his thumbs feathering along my jaw. “You drive me crazy. You push me hard. You make me think. And laugh. And feel.” He touched his forehead to mine like he had the first time he’d kissed me. “I love you, Hannah Becker. Even though your brother is going to kill me. I love you.”
“It’s about time,” I said, kissing him with all the happiness sparking through me, the crazy fireworks ricocheting through my rib cage and inside my head. “I love you too. But you’re telling Dave.”
Epilogue
“I can’t see you both,” Dave said, staring at the Skype screen. “I’m getting half of each of your faces. One at a time, y’all.”
Will answered by lifting me onto his lap and tilting the camera to capture both of our faces. “Better?” he asked innocently, and I pinched him. He only grinned.
“No,” Dave said, crossing his arms. “What’s going on?”
“Ummmm,” Will said, and I slid my hand into his, knowing how much he was dreading Dave’s reaction. “I’m in love with your sister. She’s infuriating.”
I elbowed him but kept my eyes on the screen, where Dave’s blank expression stared back at us. “Sorry. I think the camera glitched. What did you say?”
Will groaned, but I knew Dave too well to buy it. “He said he loves me. I love him too. Deal with it.”
Dave’s expression didn’t change for almost ten agonizing seconds, and then a slow grin spread over it. “And how long has this been going on?”
“Years,” I said, and Dave’s grin dropped.
“We just didn’t know it yet!” Will said, scrambling to smooth things over. “We only figured it out a couple of weeks ago.”
Dave smiled again. “Y’all are both kind of dumb, then. I figured it out a long time ago.”
My eyes flew wide, and I stared down at Will, who looked equally surprised. We both turned to look at Dave.
“You did?” Will said.
“Yeah.”
“So you’re not mad?”
Dave’s smile faded. “I don’t know. That depends. What happens next?”
“Dave,” I snapped. “We haven’t even had a month to get used to this. We have no idea what’s next.”
“That’s not true,” Will said. “Hang on.” He fished something out of his back pocket and held up a ring, a simple band carved out of cocobolo that he slipped on my ring finger. “I’m all in, Hannah. I’m replacing that with gold. And diamonds. Or whatever you want. But I’m all in.”
I stared at the band, up at Dave, down at Will, then grinned before I threw my arms around his neck and let my kiss say yes for me. And the last thing I heard before disappearing into the haze of Will’s kisses was Dave’s groan and the beep as he killed the Skype connection.
“I love you, Han.”
“Always, Will.”
<<<<>>>>
About the Author
Melanie Bennett Jacobson buys a lot of books and shoes. She eats a lot of chocolate and french fries and watches a lot of chick flicks. She kills a lot of houseplants. She says “a lot” a lot. She is happily married and living in Southern California with her growing family and more doomed plants. Melanie is a former English teacher, who loves to laugh and make others laugh. In her downtime (ha!), she writes romantic comedies and cracks stupid jokes on Twitter. She is the author of six previous novels from Covenant.
10 Facts about Melanie
1. My husband bought me an e-reader before they were cool because he couldn’t handle bringing a whole suitcase just for my books on our trips.
2. I once gained five pounds in a month from eating sea-salt caramel gelato.
3. My paternal ancestry is Cajun, and I make a killer jambalaya.
4. I e-mailed my now-husband on a dating site because I was impressed by his book list.
5. I’m a roller coaster fiend—bigger, higher, faster, but no dead drops!
6. I’m a sci-fi nerd: books, movies, TV shows—I love it all. Well, the good stuff.
7. I’m fluent in ASL (my parents were deaf).
8. I’m weirdly lucky. If there’s a raffle, chances are I’ll win.
9. I always get the best parking spots but pick the worst checkout lines.
10. I’ll eat anything if it’s made from potatoes.
Other Books And Audio Books By Melanie Jacobson
The List
Not My Type
Twitterpated
Smart Move
Second Chances
Love Unexpected: A Storybook Romance (contributor)
Painting Kisses
Hell was full of either coffee or dried bits of omelet.
Maybe both.
Definitely both, I decided as I wiped up the spillover from the twentieth breakfast I’d served since starting my shift. These construction guys made a bigger mess than my niece Chloe did. Then again, Chloe was probably the world’s only three-year-old who ate with the table manners of the Queen of England . . . when she wanted to.
I swept the plates into a plastic bin and pocketed the five-dollar bill tucked under the salt shaker. It was more than fair for a fifteen-dollar ticket. I minded the clean up a little bit less. A very little bit less.
“Lady? Lady, I need a refill.”
I put on a smile and scooped up the coffeepot on the counter. “Coming, Mr. Benny.” It had taken me only a couple of weeks to memorize the regular orders for a dozen different customers, including this raisin of a man’s, but he still hadn’t learned my name after almost a year of coming here. Was it such a jump from “lady” to “Lia”? For someone who shorted my tip three times a week, apparently yes.
The diner’s door swished open, and Aidan stuck his head in. A happy sigh tried to sneak out of me, but I didn’t let it. I barked at him instead. “You’re confused. It’s not Saturday.”
“Is it clear?”
Clear like your lake-blue eyes? Yes. Desirable for you to be here in the middle of the week unexpectedly? Yes. Acceptable for me to be all schoolgirly about it? Nope.
“Ramona isn’t here. It’s clear.” Ramona was the R of the T&R Diner, co-owned with her husband, Tom, who was a killer short-order cook.
Aidan made his way to the only open table, with Chief, his Australian shepherd, at his heels. He folded his long body into the corner booth, and Chief settled down beneath the table with a faint jingle of his tags.
“Did I hear Chief?” Tom hollered through the pass-through window. “Ramona’s going to catch us one day.”
“Not us,” I hollered back. “You. You let that dog in. Not me.”
“You know you love him,” Aidan said. “Also, I just heard his stomach growl.”
“His stomach?” I repeated. “Better be, because I know you wouldn’t try telling me how to do my job with that lame hint.”
“Of course not,” he said, grinning. “But I’m not going to stop you if you want to come take my order.” He couldn’t be that much older than me, but crow’s-feet already framed his eyes. Too much working in the sun, probably. Not that they looked bad. Not that anything about him looked bad.
“Don’t care what you want, but Chief’s is done.” I darted to the window and scooped up a plate of breakfast sausage, then made my way to Aidan’s table.
One of the other regulars protested. “That’s supposed to be my sausage. I ordered first.”
Tom grunted. “It’s time I told you the truth, Hogan. I like that dog better than you. You can wait.” He slapped his spatula against the griddle for emphasis while several of the other men chuckled.
I set Chief’s plate down in front of the dog before crossing my arms to brace for Aidan. “What are we on today?”
“We? I like that you’re showing team spirit.”
“You’re making me. This is a stupid goal.”
“You’re full of . . . energy this morning. What are you on? And can you give me some?”
“Sleep,” I said and held up my hand to cut him off when I saw the glint in his eye. “Whatever joke you’re about to make, don’t. You, me, and the word sleep have no business in the same sentence, so don’t go there.”
He put on a wounded look. “I can’t believe you’d even think I’d make that joke.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“I mean, it’s way too easy. I like a joke I have to work for.”
“Why are you even here on a weekday?”
“School’s out. I’m on a summer schedule now.”
He went to school? A lot of the blue-collar guys who came into T&R would never consider trying to start college in their late twenties. Most of them were focused on working their way up in their unions or getting themselves foreman jobs, from what I’d overheard in their conversations. They weren’t academics, just down-to-earth guys who had wives and kids and who were trying to pay the bills. And that was exactly why I’d chosen a dive like T&R to work at and not one of the high-end breakfast cafés farther up Big Cottonwood Canyon. Down-to-earthiness. For the rest of my life, I could never get too much of it.
“Summer schedule?” I asked. “Does that mean I have to put up with you on more than Saturdays?” I didn’t know if I wanted him to say yes or no.
“Probably. You’re on the way to my jobsite. And by you, I don’t mean you, Tom!” he called. “Especially not on number twelve day. You can bet that when I get the number twelve, I’m just here to see Lia.”
“Get a room!” a guy in a red hat said.
“At least get her digits,” another guy yelled out.
“I try every time I’m in here. No dice.”
“If it works, give them to me,” Red Hat said. “She always tells me no too.”
“Liar,” I said to Red Hat, trying to act like having the whole diner’s eyes on me didn’t fluster me, even though my cheeks had warmed. “You haven’t asked me for anything but breakfast.”
“Can I have your number?” he asked.
“No.” I hadn’t meant to be funny, but laughter rolled across the diner, along with a catcall. Mr. Benny scowled and clapped his hands over his ears.
“How come I can’t have your number either?” Aidan asked.
“Because you can’t order me off the menu like you do a chicken-fried steak.” More laughter from the other guys. Aidan took it all in with a smile—that one I’d actually been trying to earn.
“How come you’re not like this every day?” Hogan asked, grinning despite still not having his sausage.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I growled and stared pointedly at my order pad. But I did know. In the three years I’d worked at the diner, I’d made a point of meeting every flirtatious customer remark with a polite smile that discouraged any follow-up. If it didn’t work, I went with pretending I couldn’t hear the comments. The regulars knew they could expect friendly, quiet service. I didn’t
have the knack for the patter and teasing that the other girls had. First-timers came in and tried to flirt with me from time to time, but I couldn’t do it. I wished I could wave a wand and make them think of me as an invisible food-delivering robot.
I couldn’t be clever with anyone I didn’t know well. Only the other employees got jokes out of me. Other employees . . . and Aidan.
He’d startled them out of me the first time. He always had The New York Times on his iPad when I dropped food by his table. After a while, I’d maybe, sort of, definitely spied to see what kind of stuff he was reading. Current events, arts, sports, business. He read it all.
One day he’d been reading a review of an artist I’d known and loathed ever since I’d met him at a joint show we’d done. He called himself Zhaday, which sounded stupid on a middle-aged white guy from Delaware. I read about this band once who insisted on a huge bowl of M&M’s in their dressing room with all the brown ones picked out because they were rock stars and they could. This guy was like that. But worse was that Zhaday’s art had no soul. His earlier work did—I’d studied it and liked his sense of form and color—but he’d lost that somewhere along the way.
The piece on Aidan’s screen had shown Zhaday’s interpretation of the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan as a decaying monument, rotting almost organically. “Disturbing View of New York’s Place on the International Art Stage,” I read the headline aloud. “Disturbing? Sure, if we’re talking about the pandering he’s doing with that painting.”
Aidan choked on his coffee, spluttering and laughing at the same time. It was kind of cute. “That was perfect. I’m buying you a drink.”
I shook my head, embarrassed at outing myself for reading over his shoulder. “I don’t drink.”
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