Page 359 of Playing With Fire

I stare at her.

“Chicago?”

She nods.

“You're staying?”

“I'm staying.”

I pull her against me so fast she laughs.

“Becks.”

“I know.”

I press my forehead to hers. “I was going to tell you tonight that I want you here, that I want all of it. The books, the cat, the peanut butter banana smoothies, every ordinary morning we can get.”

Her smile softens.

“You could've told me that before.”

“Yeah. I know.”

She lifts the notebook between us.

“Plot twist.”

I laugh, then kiss her again.

Behind us, somebody whistles.

I don't care.

I think about Declan telling me to make the plan about the little girl who used to make wishes at eleven-eleven. About the life I never thought I'd be brave enough to ask for.

“Love you, Becks.”

“Love you too, Bishop.”

For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of what comes next. Because whatever story Delaney Beckett writes for us, I know exactly where I belong.

EPILOGUE

DELANEY

Twenty-four hours ago, Hayes Bishop watched the New York Titans lift the Cup on his home ice.

Today, he's driving his grandfather's old white Silverado down a dirt road in northern Michigan, singing along to a country song he doesn't know half the words to.

I think I prefer this version.

“Are you going to tell me where we're going?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Are you kidnapping me?”

“Pretty sure that requires you not getting into the truck willingly.”