Page 120 of Wistful Whispers

“You wereneverthat guy.” She tilts her head.

I boop her nose. “Iwas. For a while. It’s behind us now.”

Our waitress brings wine, pizza, and some saucy dish smelling of garlic and heaven. We eat like we haven’t in days—hands brushing as we reach for another slice, mouths full, eyes lazy with heat and Chianti.

After dinner, we walk. Harvard Square at night is magic. Bookstores glowing like lanterns, buskers performing half-frozen versions of 90s ballads, the sound of late-night coffee orders drifting from a nearby café. There’s laughter in the air, floating over cobblestone and making the cold feel romantic instead of cruel.

She tugs me into a narrow alley lit by fairy lights strung overhead, the bulbs glowing amber against the dark. It’s quiet here, tucked away from the city hum. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me like she’s starving. Like she’s missed me, even though I’ve been beside her all night.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, voice warm against my lips. “You were incredible today.”

I cup her cheeks, brushing my thumbs beneath her eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, and it’s so certain I feel it in my bones. “Even with the tie slightly askew and the nervous lip twitch.”

I gripe. “The lip twitch is genetic. Blame Rory.”

“It was hot. Made you human. You’re usually so—” She laughs as her hands slide to my chest. “Perfect.”

I kiss her again, slower this time. Promising her everything—later, always, forever. “You’re my favorite person,”

On the way back to the hotel, we pause at a coffee cart, the scent of espresso rising in clouds of steam. She orders a hot chocolate. I get tea.

“Dr. Madison was right, you know,” Marcella adds, blowing over the cup. “About making amends. About choosing to see the gray.”

Marcella had the fertility consult with her a couple months ago. I’m glad I pushed for it, if I’m honest. We’re not ready. Soon, though, and improving our odds of starting a family when my residency is behind me is a massive priority.

Instead, I say, “She’s the reason this project exists. The reason I want to continue this full-time when I’m done.”

Marcella nudges me with her shoulder, like she’s holding something back.

“What?” I squint at her over the rim of my cup.

She bites her lip. “Speaking of full-time…I didn’t want to bug you when you were preparing for the presentation. Remember last week when I had lunch with Zoey Pearson? The thing is…I applied for something.”

My brows lift. At first I thought it was strange she was having lunch with Connor’s bandmate’s wife, until I remembered they worked at the same law firm once upon a time. I didn’t even think to ask how it went.

“Zoey is the Chair of the Board for the Rainier Foundation.” She gives a small, excited smile. “Next week, I’m meeting her again with their CEO, Shay Andrews. They’re looking to hire an in-house General Counsel.”

This shocks me to my core. Marcella hasn’t mentioned wanting to leave the firm for months. “You applied?”

“I’m pretty sure the job is mine if I want it. It’s very different than what I’m used to. A big opportunity nonetheless.” She bites her lip. “Arts in schools, equity work, all of it. The foundation’s exploded in the last year. I think I could really do something good there. It pays well and would reduce my stress level considerably.”

“You’d crush it,” I say, no hesitation. “They’d be lucky to have you.”

She blushes and glances away. I catch the little smile she can’t hold back.

What an excellent, wonderful day.

We head back to the hotel, fingers laced. Once we’re inside, we throw our coats on the couch and kick off our boots.

The room’s bathed in amber light, cast from the antique sconces along the walls and the soft glow of the city below. Harvard Square sprawls out beneath us, a living painting—shop lights flickering, students rushing through cold air, the occasional flash of headlights from a passing bus.

Marcella stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, her reflection mirrored back at us in the glass. She watches me as she strips down to her bra and panties, curves illuminated in the glass like some goddess only I get to touch. She’s not posing, not trying. She’s glorious and real, the woman I’d do anything for.

I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. My hands skim the softness of her belly, the dip of her hips. I rest my chin on her shoulder.

“You see?” I murmur against her neck, nodding toward the window where Harvard Square is still buzzing. “I want to fuck you against this window while all those people are oblivious below.”

---