Page 121 of Keep Me In Your Heart

“It’s perfect,” I whisper.

“Describe it for me.”

“The cover is simple and beautiful. It’s green, and the title is in gold. Simple cursive letters.”

“And your name is on it?”

With a smile, I trace my name across the bottom:Sylvie Devereaux.

“Yes.”

“That’s your book, mo ghràidh. You wrote that.”

A tear slips over my cheek as I flip through the pages, remembering the exact place in the library where I was sitting when I wrote it. It feels as if I’m being transported back in time to my favorite place in the entire world.

Technically, this copy I’m holding is the only one in existence. And, other than the one I promised Killian, it will remain the only one. He begged me to publish it, but I had to make him understand that I never intended to do that. Writing was my passion, but it was never the thing I wanted to squeeze dry. I didn’t want to treat my passion the same way my parents treated me. I would just love it and cherish it and celebrate it for exactly what it is.

Holding it to my chest, I do exactly that.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he mumbles into the phone.

“So good.”

“I’m really fucking proud of you, Sylvie.”

My eyes squeeze shut as I breathe in those words, letting them fill all the tiny crevices inside me where I need them.

When I hear someone shouting in the background, followed by the honk of a horn in the distance, my eyes open.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“London,” he groans.

My blood runs cold. I’ve missed so much. Why is he inLondon? Who is he with? But I don’t pry. It’s not my business. He told me not to wait, so I’m not.

After a few minutes, he fills the silence anyway.

“Anna and I are just here on a short weekend holiday. It was her idea. After our last talk, I’ve been doing more drives. More outings. And now, this is my first trip away from home.”

Pride swells inside me.

“That’s amazing, Killian. I’m proud of you,” I reply.

“I was grumpy, but your call made me feel better. Thinking about you holding that book makes me feel better. Sign my copy before you send it.”

“I’m not signing anything,” I reply haughtily.

“Yes, you are, you stubborn brat. You wrote that book in my home. I want a copy, and I want you to sign it. Then I’m going to put it in my library, and someday, a hundred years from now, a stubborn American girl will break in just to see the great masterpiece of Sylvie Devereaux.”

“And get conned into marrying a giant Scottish grump,” I add, making him laugh.

“Yeah, that’s how the story goes.”

I drop into a kitchen chair, fixating on the book on the table. Deep down, I fight the urge to admit to Killian that missing him and being so far from him is harder than I think I can handle. I want to tell him that I still love him, and no matter how many times he tells me not to wait, I will. I can’t help it. I’ll love him until the day I die.

“Sylvie…” he whispers.

“Yes?” I feel as if he’s about to say something big. Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth, I wait, praying it’s going to be something I want to hear.

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