Page 73 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
He’s in this with me. He wanted this as much as I did. He’s mad as hell too, and ready to get some answers.
Too bad the sign slapped on the front door says “Returning Monday morning. Until then, follow the path that points to curiosity.”
“Oh, please,” I growl, shooting balls of fire at that hokey sign from my angry glare alone.
Hunter sneers at it. “As if I need his Yoda-isms.”
“If I wanted affirmations, I’d get on a Pinterest board,” I say.
“Please. That’s not worthy of a dime-store coffee cup.”
“Why don’t you follow this path to curiosity?” I say to the store. Then I do something out of character. I flip the bird. To the sign. To a freaking sign. Because Pat led us on a wild-goose chase with goose shit at the end.
Hunter joins me, flubbing his lips at the notice, gesturing dismissively. “Enjoy your date night, Pat. I hope your wife likes it when you talk in circles.” Hunter turns to me, his mouth softening, his anger fading. “Except . . . I wanted the letters, Presley.”
The way he says it, it’s like he’s cracked his rib cage open for me. All my frustration drifts into the breeze. I let it go. “Me too.”
“I wanted them so damn badly. I never thought I’d be chasing love letters. But here I am, wishing we’d found them.”
“Why did you want them so badly?”
He brushes the backs of his fingers along my cheek, leaving a trail of want in his wake. “I wanted to show you what we could do together. What we could accomplish. The adventures we could have. Now we’ve been thwarted.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “Thwarted.”
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s a funny word, ‘thwarted.’”
His lips curve into a grin. “It fits, then, because I’ve had more laughs with you than I’ve had in a long time.”
I lift a shoulder and give him a coquettish look. “Maybe you need to hang out with funnier people.”
“Maybe I do. And maybe that’s why I wanted the letters. They brought me back to you. And I wanted to finish their story with you.”
His words are wondrous, but terrifying, as an awful thought skids into my head. I worried before—is this secondhand love he’s feeling? Is he falling in love with me because of these heartfelt letters from a century ago? Will he fall out just as easily when we go home empty-handed, bereft of the final chapter in their love story?
“But what if we never find them?” I ask.
He shrugs and holds out his hands, showing they’re empty. “Sometimes I want dessert. Doesn’t mean I love the meal any less.”
A laugh bursts from my chest. “Am I the meal?”
“Honey,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he takes my hand. “You’re the champagne, the appetizer, the dinner, and the dessert.”
I scrunch up the corner of my lips. “You’re kind of setting me up right now to say Eat me up. You know that, right?”
He smacks his lips. “You seem to enjoy being eaten, if memory serves.”
This man.
He makes me laugh, he makes me swoon, he makes me think, and he makes me feel.
But thinking is what I have to do most of all. I have to think about his offer.
“Let’s get to the gala,” I say. “If we can’t have letters, at least we can have champagne.”
“Champagne is an excellent start.” He hails a cab easily, and when we’re inside, he takes my hand. “You know, Presley”—he runs a thumb along my knuckle—“we can do things like this. We can go to events or museums or dinners.” Then across my wrist . . . “Or we can stay home and just do nothing together, or nothing but each other. We’ll figure it out.” Over my palm. “Even if it’s only the occasional long weekend for the next several months. But we start there and build on it. See where we are when my travel lightens up, and then decide what’s next, together. Hell, we can write letters.”
He’s not promising me everything.
But I don’t want him to give up what he loves. I want what I wanted before. For him to come home to me.
I don’t know if this will be enough. But maybe he’s right and it’s a start. And if letters worked to keep the flame brightly burning for Edward and Greta, perhaps they can work a century later.
I stop thinking. Because I’m feeling. I’m feeling everything as he touches me.
This isn’t ten years ago.
He’s not making empty vacation promises.
He’s stepping closer to me. He’s showing his hand and asking for mine.
Do I want more of him than an occasional long weekend? Hell, yeah. Will a night or two a month be enough for this ravenous girl? Probably not. But this is the man I’ve fallen in love with. Plenty of women and plenty of men have made long-distance relationships work. Why can’t we?
