Page 88 of Clinically Awkward

“Quinton—”

“I’ve been in love with you for weeks,” I said. “Maybe longer. I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was the comedy club. Maybe it was the baseball game. Maybe it was the first time you laughed at one of my terrible jokes, and I realized I would do anything to hear that sound again.”

Her eyes were wide.

“I know this is complicated,” I continued. “I know you have a boyfriend. I know Julien’s going to lose his mind when he finds out. I know we work together and this could make everything weird and awkward and possibly catastrophic.”

“Quinton—”

“But I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care about any of it. Because the truth is, Vivian, I’m completely, hopelessly in love with you. And I think—I hope that maybe you feel the same way.”

Silence. Complete, absolute silence.

She stared at me.

I stared back.

And then she said, “You’re an idiot.”

Oh God.

This is it. This is the rejection. This is—“I’ve been in love with you since the parking lot,” she said.

I blinked.

“What?”

“The parking lot,” she repeated. “When you said I deserve better than being someone’s secret. Quinton, you looked at me like I’m the only person in the world who matters.”

Oh.

“You—”

“I love you, Quinton,” she said. “I love your terrible jokes and your ridiculous commentary, and the way you look at me like I’m something precious. I love that you invited me to your apartment even though you were terrified. I love that you’re sitting here confessing your feelings even though you think I’m about to break your heart.”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except stare at her like she had just told me the sky was green and gravity was optional.

“Say something,” she said.

“I—” And then I kissed her. I pulled her close and kissed her as if my life depended on it. Like she was oxygen, and I had been drowning, and she kissed me back. Her hands were in my hair. Her body pressed against mine. Her mouth was soft and warm, and perfect. When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

“We still have a problem, though,” she sighed. “Well, I do. I still have a boyfriend, Quinton.”

“Not one that’s good for you,” I said.

She sighed. “Still. He deserves to be told.”

“Send him a text,” I offered, trying to be helpful.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Better yet,” I continued, “let Fitz tell him. Everything sounds better with a British accent.”

She laughed.

God, I love that sound.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said.