Page 79 of Long Story Short

“Using your jet to get me back here to you?” I tease.

He nods before resting his forehead against mine. “Absolutely.”

I smile because I can’t help it. It’s romantic—and hot.

“Thank you,” I say softly, my arms wrapping around his middle. I don’t want to thank him just for the private jet offer. Or the breakfast. But for last night. For all of it.

Without me having to say anything else, he seems to understand.

“Anything for you,” he mutters before leaning in to kiss me. He lets his words settle in my mind as his mouth moves against mine—slowly. It’s a kiss that makes it obvious he intends to do it again.

I don’t know how long we stay like that in the entryway, but eventually, he’s the one to pull away with a sigh. “Today’s going to feel so boring without seeing you,” he admits.

I nod because I feel the same. It feels weird to know I won’t see him until tomorrow at the earliest. It’s not long, but also feels incredibly long.

“Text me when you make it to the city. I also want you to tell me how writing goes today.”

“I will,” I respond, lifting to my toes to plant one last kiss on his lips.

Tyson lets go and takes a step back. He immediately tucks his hands into his pockets, as if stuffing them there is the only way he’s able to fight reaching out to touch me once again.

I rush out of his house before I decide not to write and to spend the day with him instead.

As I make my way back to my place, one thing settles in my mind, clear and undeniable—this is it.

This—whatever is happening with Tyson—is what I’ve been missing.

Not just in my writing.

In everything.

Unlike when I was first told my book needs to be rewritten, I don’t feel stuck at all.

I feel inspired.

Like the words are already there, waiting for me.

And I’m scared to realize just how much this all has to do with Tyson—and what that could mean for me and my heart.

THIRTY-NINE

TYSON

The house feels different after she leaves.

Quiet.

Empty.

It feels off. Like something’s missing that wasn’t supposed to matter this much.

I stand in the kitchen longer than I should, staring at the spot where she sat at the counter just minutes ago—the same spot where she was splayed open for me last night. Her iced coffee is gone, but I can still picture her there, eating her breakfast and drinking her coffee, looking at me like next to me was exactly where she wanted to be.

I drag a hand over the back of my neck as I let out a long sigh.

I’ve got to get it together.

I’ve known her a week.