The Dead Romantics (95)
Maybe I was.
“What would this scene be like?” I began, hope making my chest hurt, knotted tight. I might’ve just been that weird girl who gave him a cactus and a book, but maybe—just maybe—I was more. “A refined editor from a prestigious romance imprint and—”
“A chaotic ghostwriter who takes graveyard walks at midnight and shouts in the rain and unironically orders rum and Cokes and bites her thumbnail when she thinks no one’s looking.”
“I do not,” I lied, my voice cracking, as he stepped closer still, and suddenly he was in front of me, and cupped my face in his hands, the recognition in his eyes blooming like dandelions, and the ache in my chest turned into something warm and bright and golden.
“I knew you once,” he said so ardently, it made my heart flutter.
“I think you still do,” I whispered, and he bent and pressed his lips to mine. They were warm and soft, and tasted vaguely of ChapStick, and I wanted to savor it. Because he remembered me. He remembered me. And I just wanted to kiss him forever, because he smelled like fresh laundry and spearmint gum and his hands were so warm cupping my face and he was kissing me. Benji Andor was kissing me. I was so happy I could die.
Metaphorically.
“It wasn’t a dream,” he whispered against my lips.
I shook my head, and my heart was beating so bright I could barely stand it. “I’m one hundred percent real. I think. But . . . maybe kiss me again to see if I’m actually here?”
He laughed, deep and humming, and kissed me again in the quiet corner office of Falcon House Publishers. “I’m sorry I made you wait. I’m sorry I didn’t realize.”
“Wait, wait.” I eased away from him a little, thinking. “Does this mean I’m literally the girl of your dreams?”
He scrunched his nose. “Wouldn’t that be a bit cliché?”
“You’re right, you’d probably flag it for being too unrealistic.”
“Especially considering one of us thinks love is dead,” he agreed.
“Okay, to be fair, you were mostly dead.” I ran my fingers across his face, his stubbly jaw and red scar, and twined into his raven-soft hair. “But you aren’t anymore, and I was wrong.”
“I’m glad you were,” he agreed, and bent his head down to kiss me again. His stubble brushed across my cheek, rough and real, and I wanted to drink all six-foot-whatever of him in like one of those stupidly large cowboy-boot beer glasses at roadside bars. Then he anchored my head and kissed me deeper, and for a moment I knew I was still in Falcon House Publishers, but I felt like I was shooting through the stars, infinite, with my heart beating brightly.
Until my starry-eyed ass came back to earth like Armageddon. “Oh—oh god,” I gasped, pulling away. “What about Laura?”
He snapped his eyes open and gave me a strange look. “Laura? She just wanted my Nora Roberts books if I kicked it, I assure you.”
I unwound with relief. “That must be one hell of a collection.”
He chuckled. “I’m proud of it. Do you want to get dinner tonight?”
“I would love t—” I froze, remembering myself. “Oh—oh shit, what time is it?”
Ben glanced at the analogue clock on his desk. “Almost twelve thirty—wait, didn’t you say you had a flight?”
“Definitely. At three, and if I miss that flight, Alice is going to kill me, so I can’t do dinner tonight because I’ll be in Mairmont but I—”
I didn’t want to say no. I didn’t want to leave. And then I found myself thinking about what came next. Dates, and movies, and holidays, years passing in a single blink. He’d keep his hair floppy, and I’d cut mine short, and we’d be somewhere else in the story, or maybe secondary characters in someone else’s. And I thought about years after that, when he’d gotten used to my chaos and I his caution and the world was a little blurry. I didn’t know where we would be, or if he would get tired of me, or if I would break his heart—
But I thought—I thought I wanted to find out.
I said, “Come home with me.”
He didn’t even think. He didn’t weigh any odds. He didn’t pause to find his words. They were there, as sure and certain as his smile. “Can we swing by my apartment first on the way to the airport?” he asked.
“Only if I can meet Dolly Purrton.”
“She’d love that,” he assured, and kissed me again.
38
Body of Work
“FLORENCE! NICE TO see you again,” Dana greeted with a smile, and put down their current read.
The North Carolinian afternoon was sweltering hot, so all the windows were opened to let the golden sunshine spill in. Mairmont’s only bed-and-breakfast looked so much different in the summertime, with the wind catching on the sheer curtains, and the sound of insects humming through the old house. All of the flowers and bushes outside in the garden had flowered into blooms of reds and purples and blues, and ivy and jasmine crawled up the terraces on either side of the house. It was oddly picturesque.
I hugged Dana as they came around the desk. “It’s nice to see you! How’s John?”
“Insufferable as always,” they replied endearingly. “He’s trying to convince me that we need a goat—a goat!—for the backyard. I want chickens instead.”