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“Why did you come here tonight? Not the ice cream. Not the storm. Why are you doing all this?” I asked.
My heart was in a tight-fisted grip while I waited for him to answer, years and years of watching him from the sidelines melting into this one breathless moment of waiting. And the worst part, the very worst part, was the warm slide of hope that I felt climbing up my ribs.
It was unstoppable.
So powerful that I was helpless against it.
He knew I didn’t want one night. Knew that anything less than everything would break my heart.
He knew.
And that knowing was the catalyst for all my yearning, and there was no stopping the way it spiraled high and hot, an overwhelming wall of heat that scorched me to the bone.
Jax’s face was a thing of beauty while he searched for the right words to answer me—harsh in his features, handsome and hard and stern and so precious to me that I wished I could put it into words.
The space between us shrank again as he took another step, and I fought a wave of tears at the tender shift in his eyes. “I’m doing this because the chance of being with you is more important to me than anything I could possibly be afraid of.”
A pin drop would’ve sounded like a scream in the pulse of silence that followed, and right on its heels, the violent crack down the middle of my chest at what his words did to me.
A tear slid down my cheek, but I didn’t brush it away. “What are you afraid of?”
Jax watched that tear absorb into my skin, his frame expanding on a deep breath.
“That no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I’llnever quite be what you need. That I’ll disappoint you or hurt you.” He stepped closer again, sliding his fingers down my arms until his fingers ghosted over my knuckles. Skin tingling with the spring of goose bumps, I glanced down at the way he slid his rough, calloused fingers between mine. “That I’ll give you the sad wreck of this heart in my chest, and it won’t be enough to make you happy. And God, if anyone has ever deserved the perfect love, it’s you, Poppy.” His voice was so full of heartache and tightly leashed emotion, and when I looked up into his face, I felt another tear at the edge of my lips. “And I’d have to go the rest of my life knowing you’d wasted all this time on someone who doesn’t know how to love the right way.”
That hope clashed mightily with the urge to fling myself into his arms, but I held myself in check, a roaring bark of self-preservation interrupting the movie-perfect ending of this night.
“You’re afraid of getting hurt,” I said. His hands tightened in mine, and eventually, he nodded. “So am I,” I whispered brokenly. Jax’s brow furrowed. “Hearing you say all this is…” I stopped, disentangling my hand from his and laying it on my chest. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. But I have this awful voice in the back of my head screamingwhy. Why now? Is it just because of the baby? Is it?—”
“It’s not because of the baby.” He interrupted firmly. His eyes were blazing, and my heart wrenched sideways, a dangerous squeezing of that fickle hope again. “Truth or dare, Poppy.”
I blinked a few times. “What?”
He dipped his head, the edge of his nose following my hairline, his ribs expanding on a deep breath that made my pulse dance. “Truth or dare, angel. I suggest picking the second.”
“D-dare,” I said quietly.
“Smart girl,” he said in a growling whisper against myskin, an onslaught of heat right on its heels. Jax withdrew his other hand from mine and reached into his back pocket, holding out a cream-colored envelope with battered edges and my name written on the front. “I dare you to read this, angel.”
With trembling hands, I took the envelope from his grip, curiosity and a heartsick sort of joy threatening to swamp me. Unfolding the paper, my breath caught when I saw the date, a Spanish hotel letterhead, and the sight of my name in messy block letters in blue ink.
“What is this?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer. I probably wouldn’t have heard him anyway because the sound of my thrashing heart roared in my ears.
Dear Poppy,
I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know what that means. Instead of trying to find the perfect words to explain the mess in my head the past three months, I’ll make sense of this in a way that makes sense to you.
Times Poppy Wilder has literally scared me into hiding
-on your 21st birthday, you wore a blue dress. I saw you from behind at the bar, not knowing it was you. Do you remember? I approached while you weren’t watching and told the bartender I’d buy your next drink. When you turned, I felt it like a punch to the gut. That was the first time I ran. Not the last, though.
-the next Christmas, you knit everyone scarves.They were terrible. You were the only one to give me a present that year. Mine was blue and white and gray, and when you gave it to me, it was the softest thing I’d ever felt, and the look in your eyes when I opened it is why I left for two weeks after the holiday. I kept the box on my kitchen table for six months, where I could see it every day because when I saw it, I pictured your face. Every fucking day.
-When your car broke down the following spring, and Cameron and I picked you up after class. You were singing a song in the back seat. It was the first time I heard you sing. I left for a week, and I listened to that song in my tent. Every fucking day.
-On your twenty-third birthday, you organized that fundraiser for the animal shelter. I told Cameron I couldn’t go, but I drove downtown anyway. You were walking three puppies, and one kept trying to eat your shoelaces. You sat in the middle of the parking lot and laughed while they climbed all over you. It made my chest hurt, seeing that kind of goodness. I left for two weeks after that.
