Page 36 of The Snuggle Is Real

"So," I say.

"So," he agrees.

That's it. That's all I've got. I have negotiated with a florist in a hostage-level situation. I once talked a groom out of a bathroom window. And I am standing on a sidewalk in Wanted, Kentucky, with so.

The maple in front of the hardware store is dropping leaves in the dark. One lands on Malcolm's shoulder. I reach up and brush it off, because I can't resist touching him, and he stops walking.

He just stops, right there under a scarecrow dressed like a cheerleader, which is very distracting, and looks at me.

"Em."

If he’s changed his mind, I don’t want to hear it. Hell, I can’t hear it.

"Don't," I say, and I don't even know what I'm telling him not to do. Don't say it. Don't take it back.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn’t retract or retreat. He just tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, the way he did on the dance floor, and his knuckles are cold now, and I shiver.

"You're cold," he says.

"I'm wearing your jacket."

"You're still cold."

It makes me feel impatient. We either need to talk about this or not talk about this. But not hover on the damn sidewalk talking about the weather. "I'm not shivering because I'm cold, Malcolm."

That lands. I watch it land. His jaw does that thing it does. Tenses right up.

He starts walking again. Faster.

Really dragging me. I have to take two steps for every one of his, and I'm breathless by the time the Inn comes into view with its pumpkins on the front steps and a single lamp glowing in the lobby window.

“It’s about time,” I murmur.

“Longest walk ever,” he agrees.

Marlene is asleep at the front desk. Her chin is on her chest and her reading glasses have slid down to the very tip of her nose. There is a half-finished crossword on the counter in front of her. Malcolm puts a finger to his lips. I nod solemnly. We sneak past her like teenagers past a curfew, because if Marlene wakes up, Lucy McIntyre and all of Wanted will know what we did tonight before we've even done it.

The stairs creak. Every single one. The Inn was built in 1890-something, according to the brass plaque by the door, and it has been creaking ever since in protest.

"Fourth step," Malcolm whispers. "Skip it. It squeaks."

He has the key out before we reach the door. An actual key, on a brass tag shaped like a leaf, because the Inn does not believe in keycards. His hand isn't quite steady. I notice, because Malcolm's hands are always steady. He signs nine-figure distribution contracts with the same hand he uses to butter his toast.

It takes him two tries to get the key in the lock.

I love him so much for that I can barely stand it.

Love.

Love. It feels like that secret is about to be out in the open.

We really should talk about this.

But if we talk, we might stop, and God, I really don’t want to stop.

The Harvest Suite looks exactly the way we left it. The lamp on the dresser that we forgot to turn off. My makeup bag exploded across the vanity. Malcolm's dress shirts hung in a precise row in the closet, color-coordinated, because he's him. And the bed: the full-size, not-nearly-big-enough bed, with its quilt of orange and gold pumpkins and the line of throw pillows I built down the middle again this afternoon, like the Great Wall of Decorative Pillows.

Rule four, in pillow form.