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She used the nickname I gave her.
The one she apparently loathed.
I grabbed my keys and bolted out. I shook my head the entire walk to the local mall. It was ten in the goddamn morning. I didn’t remember what day it was. Or what year, for that matter. I broke into a jog at some point, eager to get to her. I knocked down two delivery boys on bikes and nearly seriously injured an elderly lady. The mall was two blocks down from our building, and by the time I got there, I was sweating harder than Jeffrey Dahmer in a zombie movie. I hurried through the sliding automatic doors, realizing the mall was huge and she hadn’t specified where she’d be.
She didn’t have to.
She was standing right in front of me.
Dylan.
The generic mall fountain was her backdrop.
People were pushing strollers around her, walking around with their coffees and suits, taking business calls, fretting over menus in restaurants, and there she was. The woman of my wildest dreams.
The woman who’s about to become my reality.
The dogs were next to her on a leash, napping on the floor.
As soon as she noticed me, her worried brow smoothed, and her lips broke into a childlike smile. I hurried toward her like a congressman reunited with his long-lost brain cells. She raised a hand before I could scoop her up in my arms.
“Wait,” she said.
I stopped, doing my best not to grumble my protest. We both looked like we could use a meal, a shower, and a two-week vacation. We’d been driving back and forth across the East Coast like a traveling circus.
“Yes?”
“Open your hand,” she commanded.
I did, even though I normally only responded well to orders when we were in bed.
She pressed a smooth silver coin into my palm. “A family heirloom,” she explained. “From Italy.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but she stopped me. “Make a wish, and throw it in the fountain.”
I saw exactly what she was doing. Paying homage to the wishing well we’d visited at Bruce’s.
I didn’t have to think twice. I turned to the fountain, made a wish, and tossed the coin.
“What did you wish for?” she asked.
“You.” Swiveling my body to face her, I took her face in my hands, drawing her close. She was shaking, gripping my hands on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry I left. I never should’ve done that.” Her voice was raw, drenched with grief. “We all deserve to have room to make mistakes. I know that better than anyone.”
“You went through hell and back. It’s understandable.”
I was a sucker for this woman, and I’d have forgiven her for anything, including my own murder.
“No. There’s no excu—”
But I didn’t want her to grovel. I wanted her to remember why we were both here, running on zero sleep. I crashed my lips against hers, drowning out her protests, and when she whimpered and tried to push me away, I bit down on her lower lip, drawing it into my mouth and swirling my tongue to tease it. Finally, she melted into submission, locking her arms around my neck and extending her own tongue to dance with mine. This was entirely inappropriate for the time and place, but considering my desperation for this woman, bystanders should be grateful we were keeping our fucking clothes on.
When she ripped her mouth from mine, her lips were red and swollen, her eyes drowsy.
“It’s not going to be easy,” she warned.
“I’m used to hard things.” I cocked one eyebrow smartly.