Page 47 of The Lucky One

I can’t help it. The laugh bursts out of me along with a stream of tears. It’s not at all what he should ask right now, but it’s a very Weston thing to do.

And it’s exactly the push I need to uncork these bottled up emotions.

“You’re this giant, walking enigma—you know that?” I wipe a tear away as my body shakes with giggles.

Once again, he proves my point as he collects me against his very firm chest. The way he wraps his arms around me has the same effect as a weighted blanket and the anxiety bubbling in my chest simmers.

“I know this isn’t over glitter.”

“It’ll be in the grass past Easter,” I say, though it’s pretty muffled against his bicep.

“That’s not a Bridget problem.”

“I know.” I whisper.

His familiar scent is almost as relaxing as his touch.

The only father figure I remember was Ella’s dad, and he used to take us out in the backyard around the firepit to make s’mores. It’s the earliest and most potent memory I have that I can associate with the smoky smell Weston carries, but it’s pure comfort. Joy.

It’s something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

“He’s an idiot.” When I say nothing, he continues. “You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to. I won’t push. But I think it’s important that you know that you’re not your failed relationship. Relationships. You’re Bridget.”

I lift my head and wriggle in his arms so he’ll loosen his grip and I can look up at him. There’s no laughter on his face, no teasing in his voice.

“How could you possibly know I feel that way?”

“I’m not blind or stupid,” he says with a chuckle. “But I’m also observant. Every time you let loose, you pull back almost immediately. Like someone is chastising you.”

I press my lips together. I’ve grown so accustomed to blending in because it was expected that it’s just what I do. The old saying of “children should be seen and not heard” doesn’t even apply, because sometimes our mother didn’t even want us to be seen.

“Would you like a cookie?” I ask, my lips twitching. “You’re like a regular Nancy Drew.”

He tips his head thoughtfully. “More like a Hardy boy, but to be honest, I’m pretty stuffed. No cookies for me.”

His eyes drop to my lips for a long beat, and my breath catches in my throat.

But I’ll take a kiss, instead.

His grip adjusts and tightens, the thumb on the middle of my back strumming a comforting melody that makes me want to purr. He’s not pushing for words or actions. We’re two adults standing in this greenhouse, locked in a staring contest of “chicken”.

The charged air between us could ignite if someone struck a match.

It takes massive self control to not press up on my toes and see what it would be like to kiss him without an audience.

The question I’ve held tight to for a couple of months tumbles out before I can stop it.

“What if Bridget isn’t enough?”

It’s so quiet, at first I’m not sure if I asked it out loud. A lump forms in my throat so large, I want to choke on it. Maybe I don’t actually want Weston to answer that question because Andrew made it clear that I wasnot. And that other people would feel the same.

Weston’s brow furrows and his hands come up to cup my face, fierce but surprisingly gentle at the same time.

“You areabsolutelyenough. You’re more than enough.”

“How can you be sure?” I whisper.

I’m still finding lost pieces of myself and I suspect that I’ll be doing that for a while. But something inside me says that he’ll be right there helping me find them. Maybe even showing me pieces I didn’t know existed.

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