Page 18 of Resisting the Handsome Doctor
"You would be wrong."
He studies me for a second, and I can see him thinking. Piecing things together. His eyes widen slightly. "Wait. Are you saying you've never—"
"Don't." I close my eyes, mortified. "Please don't make me say it out loud."
"Ivy." His voice is so gentle it hurts. "There's nothing embarrassing about that."
"I'm thirty-three years old."
"So?"
"So, most people figure that out in high school. Or college. Or literally any point in their twenties."
"Says who?"
I open my eyes to find him looking at me with nothing but kindness. No judgment. No pity. Just... understanding.
"Says everyone," I manage. "Says every conversation I've ever overheard, every movie I've ever watched, every book that treats it like this transformative experience everyone has by the time they're twenty."
"Well, everyone can fuck off." He says it so confidently that I almost laugh. "Ivy, there's no timeline for this stuff. No rules. Ifit hasn't happened yet, it's because it hasn't been right yet. That's all."
"Or because no one wants—" I cut myself off, but too late.
His jaw tightens. "Don't finish that sentence."
"It's true."
"It's absolutely not true." He pulls me closer, and now we're barely swaying anymore. Just standing in the middle of the dance floor, holding each other. "You want to know what I think?"
"Not really."
"I think you're so convinced you're invisible that you can't see how wrong you are." His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "I think you've been overlooked by people who weren't paying attention. And I think anyone who actually sees you, really sees you, would be crazy not to want you."
"You don't know me well enough to say that."
"Then it's a good thing we have all night to fix that." He smiles, and it's devastating. "Dance with me. Talk to me. Let me get to know you. The real you. And by the end of the night, I'll say it again and you'll believe me."
I want to argue. Want to list all the reasons he's wrong, all the evidence I've collected over thirty-three years that proves I'm exactly as forgettable as I think I am.
But I'm so tired of arguing. So tired of being the one who talks myself out of things before they even start.
And Owen is looking at me like I'm precious. Like I matter. Like he meant every word he said in the bar about being in love with me.
I'm in love with him too. I have been since I was seventeen years old and sat on his back porch talking about Jane Eyre while the sun set behind the trees. Since he looked at me like I was saying something profound instead of just rambling about books. Since he asked questions and listened to the answers and made me feel, for three perfect hours, like I was someone worth knowing.
I've never told anyone. Not even Levi, who would have immediately told his brother and probably tried to lock us in a room together. I carried it through college, through my twenties, through every disappointing date and every quiet night alone. I told myself it was just a crush. That it would fade. That Owen Harper was living his life in the city and had probably forgotten I existed.
Except he didn't forget.
He kept my book. He looked for me when he came home. He came to this reunion hoping to see me. I should tell him. I should be as brave as he was in the bar and just say it.
But I can't. Not yet. The words are stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat, too big and too terrifying to let out. Maybe if I drink more wine. Maybe if we talk for a few more hours and I can convince myself this is real.
Maybe if I can just be brave for five more seconds.
"Okay," I say instead. "Ask me something. Something real."
"Real?"
