Page 66 of Red Flags Only

“Including when I said I love you,” I proclaim, making a concentrated effort to maintain eye contact.

“Of course,” he says. “I love you, too.”

My head jerks side to side. “No, Jupie. Iloveyou.”

“Yes,” he replies, firm. “AndIlove you.”

I step forward, grabbing his face in my hands, grateful when he lets me drag him down to my level. “No, Jupie,” I repeat. “I love you. I’minlove with you.”

He freezes. Blinks.

Grins.

“You are?” he asks. “Really?”

“I am. Really.”

His hands cover mine on his face, and he squishes them. “That’s great news!”

Uh… “It is?” I ask.

I mean,Iknow it is. But why doeshethink it is?

“Of course,” he says. “I told you you should fall in love with me. I’m tall, rich, and handsome. A total catch, and we know I’ll never mistreat you or take you for granted. This is the best outcome we could’ve hoped for. Mars will be so happy. It’s right on trope!” He gasps, hands sliding to my wrists and shaking. “We won’t have to worry about you locking your doors, because you’ll live with me. And I always lock my doors.”

As if anyone would try breaking into Jove Rogue’s house.

“Jupiter,” I cut into his excitement, “That’s not all I wanted to say.”

His hands drop, and he sweeps me into a hug, laughing. “Okay. Talk away, Lyra-love.”

I breathe in the scent of him – autumn leaves and rainwater – bolstering myself for the harder part of this conversation. “The thing is,” I hedge, then rip the bandaid off. “You’re in love with me too.”

His laughter stops, and he leans away from me, keeping me in the circle of his arms, but no longer pressed tight. His eyes are kind as he looks at me, his mouth soft. “Lyra, I’m so sorry, but I’m not.”

I thought he might say that.

I twist out of his arms so that I can go to the coffee table and snatch the peach envelope on top of it, then turn to present it to him. Exhibit A. “Am I wrong in thinkingthat everything in this letter is true?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “It’s all true. You know it is. I do love you, my song. I’m just notinlove with you.” His tone flows gentle and exceedingly oblivious.

“You are beauty, grace, kindness, thoughtfulness, peace, joy, and soul-deep contentment all in one. If you are helpless, Lyra, then you must know that I am powerless. To do anything less than love you is outside of me, an unreachable goal, should I even want it. Which, to be clear, I do not.” I quote. “These are not the words of a man who simply loves his friend. These, along with every other word in this letter, are the words of a maninlove.”

I approach him much in the way one might approach a scared, cornered animal, even though Jove does not look scared. His arms are loose at his sides, fingers relaxed. The line of his shoulders tenses for barely a second before settling back down, and his brows, though furrowed, do not lean toward anxiety. Not for him, anyway. He looks plenty concerned for me.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, reaching for me when I get close. He drags me in, one arm wrapping around my waist while the other goes up to stroke my hair.

“But it makes sense that the love letter would read asinlove when the whole point of our scheme was to get me better at writing romantically. As you can see, it’s working. A little too well, maybe.”

“Jove, even the way you’re holding me right now is romantic, and that has nothing at all to do with writing.”

“I’m a tactile man,” he replies. “I like physical touch. This isn’t any different than how I’ve ever interacted with you over the past couple of months.”

“You are tactile,” I concede. “However, a couple of months ago you could go without touching me for more than a few minutes. Since you’ve been in my house, theonly time you haven’t been holding me is whenIpulled away. And last week, when I was working on your letter, you had our legs tangled together the entire time and pouted at me any time I lessened the contact in any way. You hold my hand when we walk. You sit close when you can. You hold me at every opportunity. These aren’t just tactile touches for a touch-starved man. I doubt you’d interact with Mars in the same way.”

“Mars is touch averse,” he says. “Which is why I’m so touch starved.”

“If Mars wasn’t touch averse,” I propose, “would you hold him in your arms, hand buried in his hair, lips pressed against his head?”

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