Page 71 of Snowflakes & Sweethearts
I laughed softly. “No, but you built me a library, so I can’t complain.”
His voice lowered. “I didn’t build it just for you. I built it because it felt right to create something that lasts.”
“You’re full of revelations tonight,” I said as I ran my hand along the window frame and felt the smooth curve of the wood.
“It’s been a long week.”
I looked down at the book again, then back to him. “I want you to stay,” I said quietly.
He studied me, unsure. “At the inn?”
“Yes.Here.With us.”
“I didn’t think you’d say that.”
“I didn’t think I would either,” I said. “But I’m tired of pretending it wouldn’t matter if you left.”
He stepped closer. “It would matter to me too.”
“I know.”
He smiled, a real one this time—uncontrolled, open. “Then maybe we stop pretending.”
“Maybe,” I said.
He reached for my hand, slow enough for me to decide. I met him halfway. His hand was warm and calloused from work, his grip steady but gentle. We stood like that for a moment, fingers intertwined, the fire giving off a soft glow beside us.
“You know,” I said, “you’ve turned into the kind of man who makes grand gestures after all.”
“Is that what this is?”
I gestured toward the shelves. “A secret library, a first-edition Austen of my favorite book? I would call that a grand gesture.”
He laughed quietly. “Maybe I just like overachieving.”
“I noticed.”
The laughter faded, leaving something else in its place. I could see the question in his eyes before he asked it.
“Lucy,” he said quietly, “if I’m out of line, tell me.”
“You’re not,” I said.
He leaned forward slowly. The world narrowed until there was only the warmth of him, the smell of wood polish and faint soap. When he kissed me, it was careful at first, then certain, the kind of certainty that came without words. My pulse steadied instead of racing. I hadn’t realized peace could feel like this.
When we broke apart, he rested his forehead lightly against mine.
