Page 52 of The Lucky One

“You just wish you were on my team,” he whispers before winking at me.

He’s right. I do. I want to win the coveted weekly title of ‘winner’ at Enchanted Hollow trivia night so bad I can hardly stand it. Add that to the growing list of things I want to do with him outside of this weird, magical week where there’s a never-ending amount of ways for us to date each other.

I blink in surprise. We’re dating. Likefor realdating.

Not that we ever were technically doing anything else—it was a lazy blanket I allowed because it gave me room to breathe.

And look what it’s blossomed into.

What happens after this week is over?

I shake my head to rid the thought from my brain because I promised myself I wouldn’t get hung up on the what if’s.

“You know that scene at the end, where Adam Sandler gets everyone on the plane to get Drew Barrymore alone, and then he sings that song to her after Glenn wouldn’t let her have the window seat?”

“Spitfire, you’re being awfully specific here.” He covers his hand with mine again, igniting a thousand tiny fires from the point of contact all the way up my arm. It makes me wonder if I might actually implode.

“Andrew never let me have the window seat.” I shake my head. “He never even asked where I wanted to go. He always made the plans and I went along with it.”

I’m afraid to look at Weston because for some reason I don’t think I could handle seeing judgement in his eyes. I know he saidhe wouldn’t, but that was before I told him that I was basically spineless.

It’s one thing to tell someone that you’re fine—it’s over—you’ve moved on with your life. It’s another to actually heal from the words, the actions. The admissions that you allowed yourself to be treated that way.

But sometimes we don’t see what we don’t want to see.

Even worse, you don’t realize it’s happening until you’re almost drowning in it.

But you walked away, and that’s worth something.

“And That Thing You do?” he asks, gently.

It feels silly to explain these things using movies, but it’s the easiest way to paint a picture of the relationship and how I felt.

“I wish I was as eloquent as Liv Tyler. You know the whole ‘shame on me for kissing you with my eyes closed so tight’ speech? We were having a watch party one night—me, Ella, and Laila—and I felt every word of it. There for a while Ididfeel special, like I was the only one for him. But I wasn’t.”

I expected to be embarrassed when I finally told someone all of it. But as I tell Weston my innermost secrets, all I feel is relief. I’m lighter, like I can finally breathe again.

“Look at me, Bridget.” Weston squeezes my hand.

His eyes are dark and heavy when I glance up, his body practically vibrating with energy. Knowing Weston, there’s a myriad of emotions bubbling beneath the surface, battling for which will win.

I wish I knew exactly what to say or do to assure him or ease his concern.

“I’m okay,” I whisper with a small smile. It’s a small concession, but it’s what I’ve got.

He’s quiet for a moment, watching me in a way that continues to see right through me. But here’s something else there, something I saw in that greenhouse. Even if I wanted tofully embrace denial and pretend we don’t have valid feelings for each other—which would be a lie—there’s a startling electrical current of attraction I’ve never felt for another human being.

A hum that slides across my skin when he’s close and creates a buzzing in my ears that only his touch could satisfy.

“I really don’t want to undermine this moment, but I want to kiss you right now.”

My eyes widen. That wasn’t the reaction I expected, but somehow it’sexactlywhat I need right now. I want him to scoop me up into his arms like before and I don’t want to be interrupted. I want to know if this kiss will only amplify all the words he’s already giving me.

“Okay.” I nod, afraid to say much else.

He stands from the barstool, closing the distance between us with only a step. There’s always a height distance between us, but it’s marginally smaller with the extra boost from my seat.

It never ceases to amaze me how gentle he can be when he’s practically Jack Reacher—fine that might be my rose-colored, eager for a kiss colored glasses speaking—but I’m practically floating when he threads his hands into my hair, tipping my face toward his.

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