The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(87)

Not like a fellow mom who needs a safe place for a few more minutes won’t get it.

I wonder if it’s Brittany. I legit keep thinking she’s going to crack any day now.

Or possibly I’m projecting.

But when I climb the stairs to the loft in the dim light that happens when the downstairs lights are off and just a single lamp up here is left on, it’s suddenly very, very clear that the customer isn’t Brittany.

The customer isn’t a customer at all.

I grip the handrail tighter as Levi turns his head and looks at me.

He’s on the nearest couch, my favorite couch—purple velvet with exactly the right spring in the cushion—with his elbows resting on his knees, in dark jeans, a plaid button-down, cheeks three days past needing a trim, his hair still a little sparkly, and those beautiful blue eyes resting over dark smudges that haven’t shown in any of the photos I’ve seen of him in concert, and yes, I’ve been stalking social media and the entertainment gossip sites for all the photos I can find, and yes, I am utterly in love with the fact that he’s wearing glitter in his hair on purpose during his holiday concerts.

My heart leaps into my throat at the same time words tumble out all wrong. “What are you doing here?” I know he has a show in Seattle tomorrow night after performing in Denver last night. Southern Virginia is the wrong direction.

“I want to date you.”

I suck in a breath that sits in my lungs like electrified butterflies. My knees wobble and order me to sit. I don’t want to sit. I want to throw myself at him, tell him I’ll sell the store and ask if we can just travel the world with him for the next forever, wherever he goes, even though I know my kids wouldn’t be happy without their friends and I don’t know how I could throw away the little community we’ve built here, which is exactly why my knees are issuing orders.

They know I can’t just do whatever I want when it would hurt other people.

But I don’t see hurt when I look at Levi.

I see hope. And determination. And worry.

“Ingrid?” His eyes rake over me like he’s a drowning man and I’m his life raft.

Me. He could want anyone else, but he’s back for me. “You’re here.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Fuck my knees. They’re wrong. And I don’t need them.

Okay, I do, and thank god they’re not holding it against me that I just said to fuck them, because they’re carrying me the last few steps to get to him as he stands, and then I’m throwing my arms around him and hugging him with all my might.

I couldn’t hug him if he were a mirage.

“You’re here,” I repeat.

He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight. “Only for a couple hours, but I’ll be back Sunday. I had to see you.”

I bury my nose in his shirt and suck in the scent of pine and cinnamon and Levi. I don’t know how he manages to smell different every time, but still the same, but he does, and I want to sniff him every day. “You’re here.”

I can’t stop saying it. I’m a broken record.

He grips me tighter and strokes my back. “I missed you.”

“But why?”

It’s a legitimate question. I’m a serious work in progress. I made him jump through hoops just to fling with me.

“You made me happy. And isn’t that what life is all about?”

Forget the floor is lava. My knees are white toast soaked in milk, which is exactly what Hudson tried to eat for breakfast this morning. “I’m an utter disaster, Levi.”

“From where I stand, you’re a successful businesswoman with three kids who know you love them more than anything and who know they can do anything too.”

His shirt is so soft, the chest beneath it so solid and dependable, with his heart racing in my ear, and I can’t stop rubbing my cheek on him. “You, of all people, should know looks aren’t everything.”

“I’m not looking. I’m feeling. You are. You’re fucking amazing. I’ve met thousands of people. Tens of thousands. You’re the one who sticks, Ingrid. Every time. You make me happy. You change my life. You put your heart into everything you do, put everyone else first, you own who you are, and you deserve whatever it takes to make you happy too. I want to know if I can be what makes you happy.”

I’ve been practicing how I want to ask him to dinner for a week, and I can’t touch that. “Do I make you happy?”

We’re swaying. The only music is the sound of his voice, and we’re dancing to it. “So much, Ingrid. So much.”

“What if it’s all a honeymoon phase?”

“We’ll go slow. You tell me the rules. I still have a lot of travel next year, but when I’m here, I’ll be here. I like you. I like your kids. I miss you. I want to call you and text you and make you dinner and be here for birthdays instead of feeling guilty for calling in favors that aren’t the same and then pretending that Thanksmasbirthaversaries for all of the days I missed are enough.”

I could dance with him like this forever. “We’re a lot of work.”

“I know. And you’re worth it.”

“Are we?”

“Ingrid.”

I smile into his shirt. Dating a guy who’s gone a lot is still terrifying.