The Blonde Identity (89)

He touched his forehead to hers and she felt herself get wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and safety and hope. The sky opened up overhead but she didn’t even feel the rain.

“What about Kozlov? And all the Little Baby Kozlovs waiting to grow up and take his place? What about your job and . . .”

“First, never say the words ‘little baby Kozlovs’ ever again. Second, I’m out, lady. I talked with my dad, and . . . It’s time someone in our family got a happy ending. Now, if you don’t love me anymore . . . Or if you love me but you still don’t trust me, okay. I’m just asking for a chance. Just the chance to spend the rest of my life earning you.”

And, oh, how they broke her, the perfection of those words and that moment and that man. And they scared her. Because—

“What if I’m not enough? What if you walk away from your very important life doing your very important job and you wake up one day and think I gave all that up . . . for her?”

“I’ve risked more for less.”

“What if it turns out I’m just a woman with a night guard who hasn’t washed her hair in a week and whose entire friend group is fictional?”

“Then that’s exactly who I want.”

She remembered the man on the mountain, reaching for her, anchoring her. Keeping her safe. She remembered holding on and never, ever wanting to let go.

“I’m never going to be Alex.”

And then he laughed—she actually felt it in her chest and on her lips. “Thank goodness.”

“What if . . .” But she couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t worry. Couldn’t wonder. So she said, “What if I have to get home to my husband?”

He bristled and glared, but managed to say, “Pretty sure Alex would have mentioned if you had one of those.”

“Or my boyfriend. My big, brooding, territorial—”

“I can take him.”

“How about my seventy-two cats?”

“I love them.”

“My nine iguanas?”

“Not a problem.”

“What if I’m addicted to knitting and blew all my money on extremely high-end yarns?”

“I have savings. And I look amazing in sweaters.”

Yeah. He probably did, she thought as he wrapped her in his arms and blocked the rain she didn’t even feel anymore. The jerkface.

“I don’t know what your life was, sweetheart. We’ll figure that out together. I just have one question. What do you want your life to be?”

Zoe must have had an answer to that question at some point. A dream home and a dream guy and a dream life. She’d made her whole life about the pursuit of happy endings, but as she looked into the eyes of a man who had thought he’d never have one, she saw her blank past and empty future for what they were: clean slates. And fresh starts.

So they stood there—a woman with no history and a man with way too much—and there was really only one thing to say. “I think I’d like to be Mrs. Michaelson?”

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver ring. “That can be arranged.”





A Few Months Later





Zoe


“They’re here!”

Zoe rolled over and felt the cool sheets beside her. It had been months since she’d woken to a cold, empty bed, and she had to admit she didn’t like it. One of her favorite things about her new life were the mornings. Waking slowly beside Sawyer who, it turns out, was a cuddler. Who knew? They’d lie side by side for hours, talking about their lives before and their life after, but on that particular morning, the bed was empty and the loft was cold, so she wrapped herself in an old quilt and padded, barefoot, to the stairs.

She could feel the cold air from the open door, but he had a cardboard box in his hands and was grinning up at her like it was Christmas morning.

“Close the door,” she called, and he kicked it shut before carrying the box to the fire.

“Get down here!”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Let me find a—”

He was already pulling a knife from his boot because he was still Sawyer and she wouldn’t have had him any other way.

She nestled beside him on her side of the sofa. Because they had sides. They had routines. And habits. And inside jokes and fights and making-ups and everything. They had everything. And Zoe didn’t think about what she didn’t have and couldn’t recall.

It was coming back. In pieces. She’d remembered her mother, who taught English at a fancy boarding school in France, and her father, an American engineer who did something with luxury German automobiles. They’d had their daughters late in life and then one of them had almost died. Zoe. Zoe had almost died. And her mother’s full-time job had become keeping her alive.

Don’t run, Zoe.

Don’t fall, Zoe.

Don’t die, Zoe.

She hadn’t. In fact, she had gotten very, very good at not dying. But she hadn’t been very good at living. Not until—

“You ready?” he asked. He winked. Then she kissed him. Because she could. And he kissed her back because he couldn’t not.

“I’m ready,” Sawyer said as he sliced open the box then looked down at the advanced reading copies of the debut novel from Z. S. Michaelson—the pen name of a husband/wife writing team that was shrouded in mystery.