We keep talking until it’s stupid late in Paris and my eyes can barely stay open. It’s as if we’re both stretching out this tiny piece of heaven like we can make it last forever.
Eventually, I can’t fight it anymore.
“Sleep, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay right here while you drift off.”
My heart actually hurts at how sweet he is. God, I love him.
I love you, Worth.
I think I hear Worth inhale sharply, but I’m too sleepy to wonder why.
48
WORTH
“Ilove you, Worth.”
I replay the words in my head for the hundredth time as I shut off the kitchen lights and head upstairs. Mya’s voice was sleepy-soft, slurred at the edges, the way she gets when she’s half under. But she said it. Not in a jokey or a “love ya, buddy” way. It was pulled from somewhere deep, a place she keeps locked up. And I got to hear it.
I’m grinning like an idiot. I can feel it on my face and I don’t even care.
She might not remember it. I know that. She was on the verge of passing out, voice all warm and drowsy, barely aware she was still on the line. If I were to bring it up, it would probably spook her. So I won’t.
But I heard it, and I’m going to sleep with it.
I crawl into my own bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s become way too big and way too cold without Mya. I hadn’t planned on calling her. I really hadn’t. But then she answered my text.
And I was there, in my living room, with nothing but the ache of missing her, and all I could think was:I want to hear her voice.
I was just going to check in.Instead, I heard Paris in the background, her laugh, and the way her breathing sped up when I flirted back. And then Mya went and set my whole world on fire with four sleepy words.
God, I miss her.
I roll onto my side and glance at my phone. I could’ve talked to her all night.
What I didn’t tell her is that I’ll be in Paris next week.
We were in that stupid perfect bubble where the annulment didn’t matter and nothing else existed and we were just us.
I didn’t want to shatter it or freak her out. She’s finally happy. The last thing I want is for her to think I’m flying across the ocean to corner her.
I’ve got meetings with clients, a site walk, and lunch with the Paris partners.
Plus, Brianna will be with me this time. Spring break lines up, and she’s been nagging me about the Eiffel Tower and croissants ever since Mya and I eloped, so I said yes.
There’s another part of me that’s picturing finding Mya on a Paris street and kissing her like no time has passed. Like that night in Nantucket didn’t crack us all open.
I exhale, long and slow.
One step at a time, Miller.
Tonight, I got “I love you.”
Next week, I go to Paris.
And if fate—God, universe, whatever—decides to put us in the same room again?
I’m not letting her leave without knowing exactly where I stand.