“Punch things,” I finish for him.
“Or say things they never fucking meant.” Dark brown eyes stare down at our hands, both holding his phone. Neither of us moving. No pulling away. But not reaching for each other, either.
He’s waiting, I realize. Waiting for that final minute after a month-long bet. Making sure it’s completely fair to claim his prize, when it had been his long before there’d ever been anything to win.
Because even after facing his past, he’s still unsure. Like that moment he’d apologized to me with a blanket fort. His hand, hovering between us, uncertain if an advance would be accepted or rebuffed. Until I’d reached across and shown him it was okay to let me in.
I have the same choice now. To move on from Spencer Armstrong and feel bittersweet at what we had. Or to stay with him. Work through our issues, no matter how difficult they may be at times.
And of all things, I think of Summer Prescott. Of her and her bees. Something she loves so much, even if it might hurt her, because you don’t give up on something you love.
I tug his phone until he drops it. Put it in my pocket. And take his hand in mine.
Spencer releases a breath, low but just enough for me to hear. Immediately, his hand squeezes mine. “I… I’m sorry.”
Because there are no other words to better describe that.
“You and Keeland… I know you have history. I can’t promise that won’t always piss me off. When I think of you with him, that you loved him… you deserved better, Kennedy. You still do. A prince. Someone who will sweep you off your feet.”
Except this isn’t a fantasy, with castles and princesses and daring adventures. It’s not even a chick flick, with actors and exotic locales and zany meet-cutes.
This is Spencer. And me.
And though it’s not a perfect analogy, when he moves, the porch swing, well, it swings, and it feels a little bit like sweeping.
I shake my head. “I don’t want Ashton. Or anyone like him. I don’t even need a prince.”
“I know,” Spencer nods. “You want someone you can trust. Who will trust you. And I want to be that man. Look, Kennedy, even if you can’t see a future with me—”
“Wait,” I hold up my hands, coffee sloshing in its cup. “Who said that?”
“I read it.” Here, he sheepishly looks away. “On that list of reasons to sleep with me.”
I groan, covering my flushing face in one hand. “You were never supposed to see that.”
“No shit.” He snorts, then takes my hand so I have to meet his gaze again. “Even if you can’t see a future with me, I see one with you. I want one with you. No more of this secret bullshit. No schedules. You’re my biggest fan. I need you to keep being my biggest fan. To cheer me on, even when I don’t believe why you ever could. I want to cheer you on, too. Because I’m your fucking biggest fan. I love your color-coded calendars and your coffee addiction and how much you love those shitty rom-coms. I want to kiss you whenever the fuck I want. Where anyone can see. Hold back your hair when you’re sick. Write you lists about all the ways you make me fucking happy. You’re the only girl I ever need in my bed. Only you. Every night. And I want to raise your swearing to fifty fucking percent—”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just some shit Rowe said,” he waves it off. “Point is, Kennedy, when I look at you, all I can think about is how hard you punch me.”
I sniff.
“You’re going to fucking cry now, aren’t you?”
“No,” even as I down a gulp of coffee to keep from sobbing.
Spencer wipes a tear from the corner of my eye. Then he does what I’ve craved since the moment I laid eyes on him minutes ago. Pulls me closer. Into his warmth. Clasps his hands over mine around the paper cup. “These damn hands. Whenever you’re around, princess, it kills me not to warm them up.”
So he does so now. Presses his mouth to each chilled finger in loving, lingering kisses. I cry freely, so in awe of his tenderness. His dedication to taking care of me, down to every last fingertip.
“Spencer,” I finally rasp. “It’s true. I really can’t see a future with you.”
He freezes.
“You know why? Because you’re unexpected. If I could see our future together, it would be ‘marked by no noteworthy or untoward incidents’.”
“Meaning?”
“Uneventful,” I say, mimicking the same adoration to his knuckles that he’d shown to my fingers. Planting small kisses on his skin with each word. “Monotonous. Dull. Humdrum. Boring.”
“You go against all my plans. Surprise me in all the best ways. And I want that. I’d rather be with you and have no idea what’s in store than plan every single minute detail of a life with someone else.”
Spencer smiles. Wide and carefree and so unbelievably handsome, my heart picks up its pace double time.
“This summer,” he says quickly. “I’m visiting them again. My siblings. I want you to meet them, too.”
The hopefulness, the excitement, in his voice makes me want to cry more. Because—
“I can’t.”
His smile drops. “Why not?”
“I’ll be studying abroad this summer,” I wince. “I leave right after finals.”
But Spencer doesn’t look as disappointed as I thought he would. He looks contemplative. “Italy?”
“No, the program was full. But there was a late cancellation for another trip,” I say, and when he
