Page 54 of Missing Linc
“Happy birthday to you…”
A blur of light illuminates the dark apartment, and the whole room starts singing.
Ezra approaches with a big birthday cake—chocolate ganache with strawberries decorating the edges and two numerical candles as well as sparklers—and stands in front of me, singing the song as well, only adding a little bit more sensuality to his tone and moves than the rest of the guests. I found out after the first time we’d met that he is a porn star. Orwasa porn star. Until he met Isaac.
When it’s my cue to blow—the candles, you cheeky fucks—everyone says the clichéd “make a wish” bullshit. Which, if it isn’t obvious from my snarky comments, I usually ignore.
But this time, it feels like I need a wish. I need something to ground me here now that Autumn is going and I have to face life alone starting a new relationship with Linc—who’s a sweetheart.
I look at the familiar faces around me, at everyone who’s here to celebrate my birthday. New and old friends smiling back at me, and before I make my wish, I make a promise to myself.
I’ll be a better friend.
It’s been Autumn and me, team Hawkins, for as long as we’ve been together, and I’ve kinda forgotten what it’s like being with others. That others need me as much as I need them.
And, of course, I need none more than Linc. This tall glass of water who I thought was unattainable, only for him to go on and prove me wrong in every possible way.
Not only is he attainable, he’s kind and caring, sweet and thoughtful, dirty and hot, and just about the perfect kind of guy I could have asked for.
So, yeah…
I’m going to be all right.
But maybe there is one wish yet to be made.
I return my attention to my cake, the wax on the candles traipsing down the body of the numbers and into the ganache, and I close my eyes extra hard.
I wish…
I wish for my happy ever after.
With Linc.
Epilogue
3 months later
“Where do these go?” asks one of the guys who’s been going in and out of our apartment for the past half hour.
The box he’s carrying reads “books” on the side, and the man looks just about ready to collapse, the sweat trickling down his forehead like an open faucet.
Cam turns to me, looking for the answer in my eyes. Even though I’ve told him to treat my home as his own, he’s still a little reserved, if not downright shy about it.
“Over there is good.” I point to the corner of the living room, and the man sets the box down with a groan.
“I’m sorry,” Cam says to me, and I turn to face him. “I tried to get rid of as much shit as possible.”
I hold him closer and kiss his forehead, brushing his blond hair to the side.
“When will you stop apologizing? This is your home now. I told you before and I’ll keep telling you until you start treating it as one.”
It took me weeks to wear him down before he finally said yes, and even then it wasn’t because I asked—for the gazillionth time—it was because rent payments were getting harder and harder every month.
So when the alternative was for me to lend him money so he can afford his rent or move in with me and not have to pay any rent—since I own my house—the answer was pretty easy.
“Okay.” He smirks. “I’ll start trashing it as soon as they’re gone.”
I grab his jaw in my hand and dip my head closer until we’re only inches apart and raise my eyebrows.
