I feel something like joy with her.
That fills my whole heart and spills over into the rest of me.
All because of the lovely, big-hearted, kindred spirit of an American who walked into my life.
The woman I no longer have the will to stay away from.
When I walk her home, I ask her if she wants to see more of my London the next morning.
“Do you have something in mind?”
A photograph image flickers before me, along with a feeling. Maybe it’s déjà vu again. Or maybe it’s my imagination this time.
But I am sure of this—I know what I want to show Jo.
“I do. A place I stumbled across a month ago. I felt like I’d discovered something no one else had found.”
Her blue eyes gleam with excitement. “Take me there.”
The next morning, we make our way to the old church near St Paul’s, the one I came across more than a month ago, before she arrived and turned my lonely life upside down.
Before she filled my days and nights with her questions, her hope, and her own vulnerable soul.
Before she filled it with so many dangerous, but wildly wonderful, possibilities.
As we walk down the alley, the déjà vu I experienced the night of the gallery returns like a force inside my body—a pulsing in my veins, the pounding of blood in my ears. As we near the little church, the sensation practically seizes me, takes my mind hostage.
But it’s not déjà vu, after all.
It’s a stark realization of what’s happening to me.
After I took that photo the first time I was here, I pictured a moment unfolding.
I imagined talking about this place. Laughing about it. Having a meal.
I wanted to share the picture with someone. And now I’ve found her.
And I have that future right beside me.
When we reach the ivy-covered stone, Jo’s breath catches. “Oh Heath, it’s so gorgeous. And so very you,” she says, moving closer to me.
I catch the faint scent of summer from her shampoo. My skin buzzes with electricity. My chest heats with longing. “Do you think so?”
“It’s completely you.” She turns away from the church to face me. “It’s a little moody. A little bit hopeful. And it looks like it has a story it wants to tell,” she says, her voice like sunshine.
“And because it’s old,” I joke, trying to step away from the intensity, but she takes my hand and won’t let me.
“No.” She shakes her head. “It feels timeless.”
“It does. I love that about it,” I say.
She shudders out a breath at the word love.
Then whispers a hi.
“Hi,” I say.
One more small step and her face is so close to mine. The air crackles. The risks no longer matter.
The future is now, and I can’t let it slip away from me. “May I kiss you?”
Her grin lights my soul as she answers. “You better. But I must warn you . . . if you do, it’s not going to stop at kissing.”
My entire body sings. I close the distance, hold her face, meet her gaze. “It better not end.”
I’m not just talking about kissing. I’m talking about this unstoppable thing that’s happening between us.
I drop my lips to hers, and all the déjà vu ceases.
This is all there is.
This woman. Her lips. Our time.
18
HEATH
The kiss starts slow and a little dreamy, like neither of us can believe our luck.
It’s a gentle exploration. A return to each other and that one night that unspooled into a month of longing.
But kissing the woman you want rarely stays slow for long. Soon the kiss turns heated, bordering on urgent. It becomes a collision of lips and teeth and bodies.
Yet even as our kiss turns frantic, my mind does not. As my lips sweep across hers, the most welcome calm floods my entire body.
Are kisses supposed to make you feel settled?
Hers certainly does, and in a brand-new way.
A way that wraps around my heart and mind, making me feel like this is the answer to every question.
This kiss.
This touch.
This woman who I’ve fallen in love with.
That word—love—it imprints on my brain. It blinks like a neon sign at night. I can feel it in every moment with Jo.
I kiss her more deeply, telling her with the fusion of our lips what she means to me.
As I mold my body to hers, she moans into my mouth. I want to capture the sound, replay it night after night. I can’t get close enough to her. I push and press, and as I hold her face more tightly, we slam together, up against the ivy-strangled wall of the unnamed church.
Jo grinds her thigh against my length, seeking, hunting me. Like she wants all the things I want.
She doesn’t hold back in speaking her mind, and she doesn’t hold back on telegraphing the needs of her body.
This connection between us shows no signs of stopping, only intensifying. My hands cling more tightly because I don’t want to lose her. I want to have her, as much as I can, starting right now, no turning back.