Page 52 of The Hearts We Fumble
Inside, the warm glow of the lamp in the corner casts soft shadows across the room. The guesthouse is more like a studio apartment—open and cozy. A half wall separates the bedroom from the living space, and the far wall is all windows, looking out over the pool and hot tub.
I hit a button on the wall, and the automatic curtains glide shut, closing us off from the outside world.
When I turn back to Wyatt, she’s smiling softly, pressing her lips together like she’s trying to hold it back, but it only makes her dimples more pronounced.
Something tightens in my chest.
Reaching up, I trace my thumb along her cheek, and she leans into my touch, her breath shaky.
“Am I dreaming, or is this really happening?” she murmurs.
I smirk, brushing my fingers through the strands of hair framing her face. “You’re not dreaming. This is real.”
She exhales a slow breath, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again, like she’s grounding herself in the reality of this. Of us.
“I guess it’s just hard to believe I’m here,” she admits.
A war wages inside me—this deep, aching urge to tell her I’ve wanted her here for years. That no matter how much I fought it, she’s always been the one thing I could never get out of my head. But I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say, not with how things ended between us before.
Not when I can still see the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation that says she’s not sure she can trust this—trust me.
“What’s that look for?” she asks, searching my face. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s perfect. You’re here, and I couldn’t be happier.”
She studies me, eyes flickering across my face like she’s trying to find any trace of a lie.
“You really mean it?” she asks softly.
I nod, squeezing her hand. “Of course I do. If you think tonight didn’t mean anything to me, you’re wrong.”
Her breath catches, and all she says is, “Okay.”
Like she wants to believe it. Like maybe she does—but she’s still afraid.
And I get it.
One night doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t undo the way I hurt her. It doesn’t prove that I won’t let this—let her—slip through my fingers again.
It’s going to take more than words. More than one night.
I don’t know how to tell her or explain that I don’t even have the words for what this is—what it’s always been.
Instead, I do the only thing that makes sense.
“C’mere,” I murmur, tugging her closer, hoping like hell she’ll let me show her.
She presses a hand against my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, but she doesn’t push me away. I grip her chin, tilting her head up until her lips are just a breath away from mine.
Her eyes flutter closed, anticipation humming between us, but I don’t move right away. I watch her, soaking in the way her breathing shifts, the way she leans in, the way she’s waiting for me to close the distance.
Then, finally, I do.
The kiss is slow at first, deliberate. A moment stretched thin with the weight of everything we’ve never said, everything we’ve never done. But when she fists the front of my shirt, holding me there, something snaps. My hands tangle in her hair, dragging her closer, desperate for more—more of her, more of this, more of us.
I bend down, gripping the backs of her thighs, and she lets out a startled screech as I lift her into my arms. Instinct kicks in, and she wraps her arms around my neck, breath warm against my skin.
The last time I carried her like this, she was three sheets to the wind, so her memories of it are probably a bit blurry.
