Page 184 of Sin
My hand moves across the table, and her fingers slide into mine.
“I would be honored,” I say.
Her eyes shine. “Very formal.”
“I’m trying not to drag you out of this restaurant.”
That makes her laugh, watery and beautiful.
“Noted.”
“I love you,” I say.
The words come easier now. True in a way that no longer feels like it has to fight its way through shame first.
“I love you, Laurel. And if girlfriend is what you want, then that’s what you are. Publicly. Clearly. Mine only if you want to be.”
Her thumb brushes over my knuckles. “I want to be.”
The rest of dinner is lighter. We talk about Sex Activity Pro. About her start date. About whether she should negotiate for an additional design budget because, in her words, “if they want genius, they can fund genius.” We talk about the Sins launch, carefully, then less carefully. We talk about Opal. Wilder. Tate. Owen’s tragic commitment to making everyone read policy documents.
We don’t talk about Jenna much. Not because she does not matter. Because tonight is not about taking anything else from her.
At the end of dinner, I pay the bill.
Laurel rolls her eyes. “I’m about to be disgustingly well-paid, you know.”
“I know.”
“So I can pay for dinner.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re going to be annoying about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. But I’m buying dessert next time.”
Next time. The words settle warm in my chest. There is a next time.
When we step outside, the air is cold enough to make her shiver. I take off my coat and drape it over her shoulders before she can protest.
She looks up at me.
“Sin.”
“I know. Independent woman. Feminism. Etcetera.”
Her mouth twitches. “Exactly.”
“You’re cold. So wear the coat.”
She pulls it tighter around herself. “Bossy boyfriend,” she mutters.
Boyfriend. God help me. I almost kiss her right there on the sidewalk.
I don’t because the first time I kiss her like this—after all of it, after the letter, after the decision, after girlfriend—I want it to be somewhere she can fall apart without the world watching.
