Page 106 of Kiss or Dare

“Can’t be.”

She stopped two steps from the second-floor landing. “It’s from you.”

At the top of the stairs, he swung around and bounced backward down the hall toward their bedroom. What would it be like to go through life so confidently you could do it backwards without looking? She didn’t really have to ask. He made her feel that cocky. With his winks and his kisses and his complete conviction that she was brilliant.

“Of course, it’s not from me.Pft.We’ll never know who sent it.” He turned back around and slowed his steps.

She caught up with him and matched her stride to his. She’d play his game. “Oh yes, I see now. How silly of me. Not from you at all. Couldn’t be. Impossible.”

“Just so.” He opened their bedroom, and they spilled into it together.

Her favorite shawl pooled in moonlight, spilling onto the window seat. His favorite hat lay tossed atop the wardrobe where only he and his terribly long arms could reach it. Shoved chaotically into rows of shelves were her books, and his, and some neither of them would actually ever read but enjoyed having about, anyway.

Our home.

She plopped on the bed and opened the letter to the moonlight. She read.

Dearest Lady Pennworthy,

You are not invisible. You were not made to blend into a wall of any kind, papered, painted, or even planted with flowers carrying your name.

You are a loyal woman, an imp, the perfect amount of flirtatious, and entirely deserving of your station in society. I could never have achieved what I have without you.

I can only assume your current feelings of love for your husband are symptoms of a degenerative illness of some sort. If so, I’ve caught it, too, and sympathize.

I also rejoice. Because you intend to spend your life by my side. If I did not admire you so, I’d think you a fool.

I dedicate my life to saving you from heartache and to helping you achieve everything your heart desires.

My heart desires only your happiness.

She swallowed a sob and gently folded the letter.

Devon stood near the fireplace, shuffling from foot to foot.

“It is not signed,” she said. “You are right. We will never know who sent it. Such a shame, though. I would dearly love to meet the man who wrote these words.”

“He means every one of them,” Devon said, creeping closer and sitting next to her on the bed. He lifted her chin up. “You’re crying! Here. Give me the letter. I’ll burn it.”

She clutched it to her heart. “If you touch it, I’ll rip out your tendons.”

“Violent, Clarke-ian tendencies, my dear. I thought you’d mastered those.”

She laughed, a small huff of a sound, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Do put those lips to better use and kiss me.”

He laid her down upon their bed and did just as she requested. The letter fluttered to the floor, a bright patch of cream against the dark wood floor.

Like cream in coffee.

THE END