Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
His presence feels too big for the hallway. His body’s too close. And then he steps in—closer—and I swear my lungs forget how to work.
“Are you going to pretend you feel nothing?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “That you haven’t thought about me… missed me?”
“Cole—”
“You don’t have to lie.” His voice dips, a little rougher now. “I can see it all over you. The way you’re looking at me. The way your hands won’t stop trembling.”
I cross my arms, trying to still them. “This isn’t the time.”
“I don’t care about the time. Or the place. I just care about you.” He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. “And whether you’re brave enough to admit what you still want.”
My pulse is a snare drum. “We shouldn’t be doing this here.”
“Then come with me.” His fingers skim mine. “Let’s go somewhere private. Just you and me. Say the word, and I’ll have you alone in sixty seconds.”
He’s still watching me like he knows exactly what he’s doing to my body. Like he’s cataloging every reaction, every heartbeat.
“You’re impossible,” I whisper.
His smile deepens—dark, familiar, devastating. “Only for you.”
And then—God—he pulls me into him.
No warning. No hesitation.
His mouth crashes into mine like no time has passed at all. I fall against him with a broken sound, my fingers curling into the lapels of his tux like I never let go. His arms wrap around me, sure and strong, one at my waist, the other cradling my head as if I might vanish if he lets go.
I kiss him like it’s the first time and the last. Like every lonely night and half-formed prayer has led back here. Tears slide down my cheeks, but I don’t even try to stop them.
He draws back just barely, lips brushing mine. “Why are you crying?”
“I thought you’d moved on,” I breathe. “I thought you found someone else…”
He wipes a tear away with the pad of his thumb, slow and steady. “You don’t honestly believe that.”
“I saw pictures from your gallery opening,” I whisper. “There was a blonde on your arm in every one.”
“She was a fangirl.” His eyes don’t waver. “She wanted a picture. That’s all.”
“She looked at you like you hung the stars.”
“Exactly,” he murmurs. “Like a fangirl.”
I hesitate. “You haven’t… tried to move on?”
“I haven’t even wanted to,” he says. “No one else has ever been you.”
A shaky breath escapes me. “I tried to date.”
“And you clearly failed.” His hand slides down to the small of my back, pulling me tighter. “You’re holding on to me like you never let go.”
“I didn’t sleep with anyone else,” I confess, the words slipping out like a secret too long buried.
He looks at me like he already knew.
“Did you?” I ask, barely breathing.
“No, Emily,” he says, steady and certain. “Anything else?”
My voice catches. There’s too much I want to say.
So I don’t say anything at all.
He kisses me again—slower this time, deeper, achingly tender. A kiss that wipes away the ache and the distance and the time.
I melt into him like coming home.
He presses me flush against his chest, like he’s trying to rewrite all the lost time with the press of his body and the heat of his mouth. His lips graze mine again, soft and breathless.
“I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he whispers. “You have no idea.”
And for the first time in forever, I feel whole again.
Like maybe this time, we’ll finally stay.
EPILOGUE 1
EMILY
Cole’s gallery sits on a bluff above the Gulf Shores, tucked into the white dunes like it was always meant to be there. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the crashing waves, flooding the space with light that dances across polished concrete floors and canvas after canvas of his work.
Today is the grand opening.
The salty air hums with voices. Tourists wander in from the beach, still smelling of sunscreen and sea breeze, tracking sand across the rug-lined walkways. Some linger over each piece, admiring the brushstrokes. Others move quickly, asking about prices, the artist, us.
His bestsellers—unsurprisingly—are the ones that feature us.
A silhouetted kiss on a rooftop. A garden wrapped in laughter. A girl looking out to sea, painted in soft blues and gold.
Each one feels like a secret we once whispered in the dark.
But when people ask about the inspiration, Cole just smiles. Quiet. Evasive.
“Just a muse,” he says. “A story that painted itself.”
He doesn’t have to say more.
I’m here, leaning against the back wall, sipping lemonade and pretending not to watch him.
He still takes my breath away. Even in a paint-flecked white shirt and dark jeans, he’s more captivating than anything on the walls.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, suddenly at my side.
“Am not,” I lie, cheeks flushing.
He leans in and kisses my temple. “You’re in every frame, you know.”
“Not every one,” I say, pointing to a still life near the bar. “That’s just fruit.”
“I was thinking of you when I painted that too.” He grins.