Page 67 of Lost in the Moonlight

Butterflies danced in my chest, and it took me a moment to respond. “If we put together all the time we’ve spent together, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. I don’t think you really know what fits me. Just like I don’t know what fits you.”

“You truly are a little liar,” he said softly, and it drew my eyes back to his. The lit flame that danced between us sparked once more, settling down low in my stomach.

“I get it, though. This…” He waved a hand between us. “It hit fast and furious in the middle of an intense situation. It’s hard to know what’s real.” He moved around the island, stopping just short of coming into my space. Even still, the connection binding me to him dragged itself through my veins. “But that, Sweetness…that feeling you just got that changed the pale-gray clouds in your eyes into thunderstorms…that’s real. That’s rare. That’s us. We don’t need to know much else.”

I couldn’t respond if I wanted to. As absurd as the declaration was, it also rang with the truth. Whatever this was between uswasreal and rare. It should make me happy. It fitnicely into the last line item in my journal. I wanted that beauty and joy and love more than he could imagine.

But it seemed impossible to think there was a way to surmount the hurdle of his fame and my need for anonymity.

He hadn’t been scared off by my potential FFI and what it could do to me, and that made my soul dance a little jig. I’d wanted someone who wouldn’t care. Who could take the leap into the unknown even if it meant a fall. What had he said? Fate had already brought us together. He'd accepted it.

I was the one holding back. Afraid to fall.

Afraid what it could mean for not just me but my mom.

“I know what I want, Willow,” he insisted. He wanted everything. All of me. “But I’m also not enough of an ass to push it, because I see your hesitation. It’s part of why I stopped earlier instead of stripping you bare, laying you on the floor, and feasting on you.”

My core clenched at his words.

I let out an exasperated breath. “How would that even work, Lincoln? Your life plays out across the pages of magazines and TV screens.”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said honestly. “So we’ll wait until we figure it out.”

The surety of his words, the sweet temptation of them, had me hearing popular fairy-tale songs in my head. If he’d reached out and touched me right then, I would have crumbled, just as I’d known I would when I’d seen him walking toward me in the gallery this morning. I’d tried to grasp the ledge and hold myself back, but my fingers were slipping. Pretty soon, I wouldn’t care about the risk to me or Mom, and that truly terrified me more than the note on the door had.

Instead of closing the distance between us, Lincoln stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits.

“I can be patient. But not for too long. Because your mom is right. Life is too damn short to turn away from something that makes you feel alive.” He walked away, calling back over his shoulder, “I have some work to do in the study. Let me know if you need anything.”

I stared after him for at least a minute. Maybe two. Trying to right the tumult and chaos that twirled inside me. Trying to steady my pulse. Trying to call back my heart that seemed to have followed him out of the room.

When I looked down at the pastry, I sighed. I’d have to start over or make something different. Something new. I wanted to give Lincoln something more than a regular tart for dessert. I wanted light and airy, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. I tossed the ruined dough. It would have been a fine dessert, but fine wasn’t always enough.

I wanted big and beautiful. I wanted more.

Chapter Twenty-one

Lincoln

ELECTRIC TOUCH

Performed by Taylor Swift

In my office, the paper bagI’d placed the crumpled note in greeted me like a warning sign, reminding me of the ugly that had lined up in my life once more. I’d be happier when the note was gone, when Hardy and the Secret Service were tearing it apart and finding out who’d left it there.

But even with all that had happened, even with everything Willow and I had shared about the tragedies in our lives, my soul felt lighter than it had in…years. Maybe a decade. And that had everything to do with the woman making me dessert in my kitchen.

Her hesitancy made me want to push. To break it down. To make her see what I saw—what Sienna had seen. But Willow was also right. This thing between us had grown like a flash mob out of nowhere. And it could disappear just as quickly if we didn’t stop to acknowledge what we felt. If we didn’t stop to build a foundation that wouldn’t melt away.

It surprised me just how much I wanted that foundation with her.

With Willow.

But how? How to do that when my life, the publicity of it, was a threat to her?

I didn’t know the answer. I also knew I didn’t need to find it while we were tucked away in my home with no press, no cameras, nobody but us. We were safe here.

Sure, the grocery store had been a risk, but I’d been careful, hadn’t I? Even the unhappy old woman who’d stared at us hadn’t whipped out her phone and taken a snap. No one knew where I was. Mom and her team had squashed any photos that had tried to leak.

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