Page 37

Drake

T he night was, in a word, brilliant. We slow-danced under a canopy of string lights.

She laughed at all my bad jokes, kissed me like she meant it, and somehow made every bite of food taste better.

We spent the night dancing, eating, laughing—and, yes, kissing.

I don’t ever think I’ll get enough of Lyla’s lips on mine.

At the end of the evening, my driver brings us to Lyla’s house and I walk her to the door.

Her hands land on my chest like they’ve always belonged there—familiar and electric all at once.

I gather her in my arms, tucking her close like she’s the final piece I’ve been missing.

She fits there—soft, sure, and wholly mine.

She feels so small and vulnerable—the person I now want to protect most in the world—as I kiss her.

Her lips are soft and smooth, melding with mine in a way that can only be described as magical.

She tastes faintly of strawberries—sweet, like her.

Like us, together. She is everything I’ve ever wanted, all that I’ve ever hoped for and dreamed of.

After I’ve kissed her thoroughly, I take a step back, forcing myself to be a gentleman and have some boundaries. Because Lyla deserves that—and much more. But when I look down at Lyla, I see that her lipstick has smeared yet again—this time, thanks to me.

“Some things never change,” I say as I wipe my thumb under her lip.

Her hands cup my face, her blue eyes looking deeply into mine. “Some things do.” Her voice is soft, but the meaning is loud.

“Are you saying you believe in second chances, Lyla Smith?”

“I’m saying that this time you also have lipstick on your face,” she says, swiping at my face. She lets out a maniacal laugh. “This is never coming off.”

“At least I’ll always have something to remember you by,” I say, echoing my words from the first night we met. She smacks my arm with her clutch.

“You better not need a reminder, Drake Blythe.”

“You’re right,” I say, wrapping her up in my arms again. “I’ll never need another reminder because you’re never leaving my side.”

I kiss her softly once more but then pull back. “I meant that more in a figurative sense, because to be clear, I am planning to not come into your house tonight.”

“Thank you for being a gentleman,” she says with a small smile. “And, yes, I do believe in a good comeback story.”

It takes all of my self-control to turn and walk away, back to the car. I glance once behind me—to find Lyla’s beautiful face, smiling at me. Making me hope—no, believe —that this really is my comeback.

My second chance at life. At love.

And this time, I’m not letting go.