Page 115 of Mr. Charming

The pilot announces that we’re landing, so I put the second journal in my bag and pack up the rest of my stuff. I have no idea how I’ll face him now or on the bus. All I want to do is get to my hotel room and read the rest of his journal.

The plane lands, and I don’t have to worry because Tweetie doesn’t try to interact with me. I end up talking to one of the trainers on the bus. By the time I get in the lobby, I hear Conor tell Tweetie what room they’re in as they walk to the elevator.

Is he embarrassed or just giving me space? I have no idea.

I don’t unpack or even take off my jacket before I throw myself in the chair in my room and pull out the second journal to continue reading.

This one starts off as he’s working to make his spot on the team. Most of the entries talk about making “them” eat their words, and I’m pretty sure he’s talking about Jana and Kane. How he’s going to make the biggest comeback and fuck everyone who didn’t believe in him. They’re anger-filled entries, and I don’t recognize Tweetie in any of them. I underestimated the chip on his shoulder—it was more like a chunk.

I freeze when I see the entry from the morning after Ford’s retirement party.

We had her for one perfect night before a choice I made a year ago came back to destroy our chance. One impulsive decision was made because I couldn’t handle the questions, because I thought erasing the past would help me move forward. Instead, it was the final nail in the coffin. The moment I removed that tattoo, I severed something I didn’t even realize was still holding us together.

I get it now. It was more than ink—it was a promise. And now she’s gone, buddy. That future we dared to hope for? It vanished the second she walked away. And she’s never coming back. I feel numb and stupid and so goddamn pissed at myself.

I’m sorry. I really am. But love just isn’t in the cards for us, not in this lifetime. We’re not built for fairy tales, for that ride-off-into-the-sunset kind of love.

The hurt will fade. It has to. Because if it doesn’t, I don’t know how we’ll survive.

I read some more entries through the years that passed, though there aren’t many. Most of them talk about how numb he feels, how he tries to mask it around other people so they only see the fun-loving, charming man he wants them to.

Then I reach an entry that’s dated a few months back, when I first arrived in Chicago.

It’s been three years, and she’s just as breathtaking as the last time we saw her. I swore I’d never write her name in these pages again, but here I am—because Tedi Douglas is back in our life. And the second I saw her, I swear my heart remembered how to beat. The numbness faded. and color bled into my vision again.

It took every ounce of control not to pull her into my arms, not to drown in the scent that feels like home. She’s the same sharp-witted, impossible woman we fell for. Fate, the universe, god, someone keeps throwing us back together, and I don’t know why. But I do know that I’d be a fool to waste this chance.

I have no idea how to make her mine again, no way of undoing the past. But if I don’t try, I’ll regret it for the rest of our life. A future without her isn’t a future at all. So wish me luck, buddy, because I’m going all in. One last shot at our one and only love.

What am I doing taking it slow and waiting? He loves me, and I love him. And sure, at points, that wasn’t enough, but we’re not who we were then. And all his painful words confirm to me that trying to convince myself I never mattered to him was misguided.

I pick up both journals, leave my room, and take the stairs one flight up, going to the room I heard Conor tell him they were assigned.

I knock, a lump in my throat and hope in my chest.

We’re going to make it this time.

Fifty-Five

Tedi

Conor opens the door.

He smiles and reaches for his jacket. “I’ll be in Rowan and Henry’s room,” he says over his shoulder, sliding past me. “My bed isn’t part of your jungle gym.”

The door starts to shut when Conor leaves, and I press my palm on it to keep it open.

The bathroom door opens, steam escaping. Tweetie is fresh out of the shower with a towel low on his hips, his chin-length blond hair still dripping, beads of water trailing down those mouthwatering abs. “Where did you say?—”

He stands there, big blue eyes full of vulnerability, waiting for me to say something first.

For a second, my brain shuts down, and I forget all the things I wanted to say in my rush here. My heart hammers against my ribs until it’s all I can hear.

Say it, Tedi. Just say it. Release all that hurt from years gone by. Start fresh.

“I love you.” The words burst out of me like a shaken soda can exploding.

His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes soften. He looks at me as though he already knew. Because he did.

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