Page 27 of The Rival

"I'll let him know you said that."

"Don't. It'll go to his head." She glances at Tom, still holding Emma, still having a staring contest. "Baby suits him."

"Don't tell him that either."

"I wasn't planning on it. By the way, I love the matcha latte. I was skeptical at first because of how disgustingly green it was, but it's delicious."

Beth leaves with a nod to Tom. Jason and Sarah finish their coffee and reclaim Emma, who's fallen asleep against Tom's chest, before they head out.

The Nook empties. Just me and Tom and William Shakespurr, who's relocated to the communal table to sleep in a patch of morning sunlight. Tom picks up his loaf of cranberry walnut bread, turning it over in his hands and smelling it.

My lungs forget their job. My heart follows. It's always in moments like this when my chest feels too small to contain what I feel for him.

"I love you," I say.

Tom looks up, forehead creased. "Y-you love me?"

"Yeah."

"Why are you telling me now?"

"Because you're holding fancy bread you ordered from Beth and you fixed my espresso machine and you carried Jason's baby even though you looked terrified the entire time. I've been thinking about saying it for three months, and I love you."

Tom sets down the bread and slowly walks toward me. "Say it again."

"I love you."

His hand comes up to my face, thumb brushing my cheek. "I love you, even if you argue with me for sport."

The response is at the tip of my tongue, but he crushes his mouth to mine, and I forget everything else—The Nook, William Shakespurr, everything. Each time Tom kisses me like this, I turn to mush, core clenching, knees weak, heart thudding.

Tom trails kisses along my jaw and the side of my neck. "I love you. That romantic enough?"

"Getting there."

William Shakespurr meows from the communal table. A sound of pure judgment. Or maybe he's just hungry.

"The cat disagrees," I say.

"The cat's named after a dead playwright. His opinion doesn't count."

Tom kisses me again, slower this time, and across the street, I can hear the faint sound of Sullivan's opening—the jukebox starting up, Jason's voice calling something I can't make out. Different businesses, different hours, different worlds that somehow fit together anyway.

Six months. Long enough to know this is real.

Long enough to know I'm staying.

The End

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