Page 51 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
This is business, and I can’t let myself be wooed away by love letters.
“I think we’d rather—” She cuts herself off. “I think I’d rather you find out what the letters are about first. I’m not sure we’d want them covered. Yes, that would be better, if we learn what they are.”
My shoulders slump. Hunter’s do too.
“Of course,” I say, disappointed. It would have been perfect, maybe even too good to be true if she’d said yes. But there’s no need to get down, because we have the true permission—to follow the clues—and surely once we uncover the story, we’ll be able to find a way to profile it for the special.
“We’ll stop recording that part,” he adds.
“Yes, that’s probably for the best,” she says. “Just focus on the dusty house.”
I shuck off any frustration about Corinne’s no—it’s only a no for now—and focus on the bigger victory. We can find out what happens next. This adventure, the one Edward and Greta devised so many years ago only for it to lay forgotten, is officially ours. That’s where I should put my energy—learning where the next set of letters lies.
I end the call and find I’m breathing a sigh of relief.
“For a moment there, were you thinking she was going to take this away from us?” he asks, and I tilt my head, surprised that he read me so easily, but strangely glad too.
“Yes. And I didn’t want her to take it away.”
“I didn’t either.”
“But I thought you wanted them for the show? And we didn’t get that.”
“I did want her permission for coverage. Because it’d be good for both of us. Because it’d be good for your next book, your career too.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t you get it? I want your dreams to come true.”
My chest warms, approaching molten, because here he goes, shifting the balance once again. Making me feel like he’s in this with me. Like he’s my partner in a great adventure.
“It feels like ours, Presley,” he adds, echoing what I was thinking. He lifts his hand, fingering a strand of my hair. That slight touch makes my pulse spike. “I meant what I said earlier. I’m having the time of my life.”
I shudder, and now my heart beats overtime as I shove away what little annoyance remains. Who cares if he has angles? We all do, and none of our angles will matter in a few days when this ends.
Right now, we have in our hands a love story we didn’t expect to find.
“Their story, how they came together, what drove them apart. Writing letters. It’s all so wildly romantic.” My voice is laced with a longing I haven’t heard in ages. A longing I’ve only felt before with him.
“It’s intensely romantic,” he agrees.
That longing resides in my chest, terrifying me, but it energizes me too. I take one small step. “Are you disappointed she won’t let you cover them?”
He swallows, staring at me with darkening eyes. “Yes, and I want to know where to go next. But right now, I’m not thinking about that letter.”
“What are you thinking?”
“How I’d be more disappointed if you don’t let me kiss you right now.” He places his hand on my neck, and I am lost.
I give in.
I give up.
I sink into a haze of static electricity that crackles and hums deep in my bones, reaching far into my cells.
This is like some sort of fevered dream. All I can do is lift my chin and whisper, “Kiss me.”
He holds my face and gazes.
Who does that? Who gazes so intently that your heart flips? That you want to throw everything out the window but what he’s about to give you?
He does that.
He makes me feel like I’m the only woman alive as he sweeps his thumb over my top lip then brings his mouth to mine.
One touch, and I’m under his spell again.
This kiss is sweet and deep, full of promise. Threading my hands through his hair, I bring him closer, needing contact, body against body. We kiss and it’s devastating, utterly devastating what I feel as his lips explore mine. The kiss obliterates all my reason. It runs roughshod over my intellect, my logic, my goals.
And it’s so damn insistent. Nothing is going to stop this kiss.
Nothing is going to stop us.
Soon, we are clawing and grabbing at each other. Sweet and deep turns into hot and dirty.
Seat belts unbuckle. Hands slide roughly under shirts. We groan and moan and murmur, reaching and squeezing and seeking.
I don’t know where we’re going right now. But I don’t want to think. I want to feel his touch.
His hands play at the waistband of my jeans, and we don’t need words. Our bodies know. We slide flat onto the seat, lying face to face, kissing like we can’t bear to have our lips not touch.
