Under the Same Stars(95)

I stopped on the staircase and turned to look at him with an arched eyebrow. “Are you seriously mansplaining a woman losing her virginity to me right now?”

“No!” Marco flushed. “I mean, yes—that’s what it sounds like, but I don’t mean it that way. I’m just…”

“Nervous?” I asked.

He flushed harder.

“Why? You’ve had sex before.”

“Yes,” he said. “But never with you.”

“You mean with a virgin?”

Because I knew that couldn’t be true.

Marco shook his head and took a couple steps up, so that we were now only one stair away from each other. I felt the back of my neck heat. “No,” he murmured. “I meant I’ve never had sex with my favorite person before.”

Favorite person.

The words felt as precious and rare as the shimmer of a shooting star.

“Well…” I ventured. “If we ever get to the Fantasy Suite, I’d really love for you to experience what that’s like.” I swung our entwined hands and kissed his fingers. “Even if it means I have to endure excruciating pain.”

Marco tipped back his head and groaned. “Mads!”

I giggled and tugged him upstairs and into the bedroom. He spun me into his arms after I’d locked the door, and I let him hold me for a moment before I hooked my fingers into his belt loops and kissed him. “Don’t ask if I’m sure again,” I said once our clothes and a foil wrapper were on the floor. My boot, too. “I’m sure, okay?”

“Okay.” Marco lowered himself on top of me and began a trail of sweet kisses up my neck. His skin hummed against mine, heat radiating between us. “But how are you sure you’re sure?” he asked as I ran my hands over his shoulders.

“Because I trust you,” I whispered back. “I trust you, Marco, and I love you.”

“I trust you too,” he told me as our hips started to move together. Slow—slowly, so we could find a rhythm. Marco kissed me. “Mads, I love you so much.”

“And because you are my favorite person,” I told him later, after it had hurt like hell. We were tangled together under the covers. “You will always be my favorite person.”

Marco smiled. “This feels like a dream.”

I smiled back. “It’s not.”

***

The final thing I did that night, after kissing Marco for the millionth time and saying goodbye to guests, was button up my wool coat and head out to the horse pasture with a lantern and some carrots. The frozen ground crunched under my boots, and I heard voices still drifting out from the barn. “Tally-Ho!” I called as I weaved through pine trees. “Tally, I have treats!”

I stopped in my tracks when I saw someone already at the split-rail fence, feeding our chestnut mare an apple. “Katie,” I breathed. “Hey.”

She turned and smiled at me. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Back in the barn, it sounded like your mom was going over tomorrow’s marching orders.”

“She is,” Katie said. “But I wanted some peace and quiet for a minute.” She sighed contentedly. “It’s been such a big night.”

I smiled. “You mean an unforgettable night.”

“Yes.” She nodded as I joined her at the fence. “Or more like an unforgettable year.”

An unforgettable year.

My breath caught, the past twelve months suddenly playing like a movie in my mind. Austin’s Paris proposal, my meltdown over Katie asking me to be a bridesmaid, all the Ready-Set-Date drama, unexpectedly making new friends, and getting into my dream college—and falling in love. There had been bumps along the way, but I realized now that I wouldn’t change any of it (except breaking my ankle). You might not have Marco, I thought, my heart igniting. If you’d done anything differently, you might not have Marco, and you might not have…

“Katie,” I said.

“Yeah?” She turned from nuzzling Tally.

I swallowed and said, “I’m so happy you’re my sister.”

Her lips spread into a smile. “I’m so happy you’re my sister too,” she whispered after wrapping me in a hug. “Because Amanda can be so annoying sometimes.”

“Right?” I joked. “Lucky for you, I’m never annoying.”

We both laughed, the sound echoing into the starry night.





Read on for an excerpt of What Happens after Midnight.





One


Fears are meant to be faced. I just didn’t expect to be facing one of mine this early in the morning. Perhaps later in the day, but before 8:00 a.m.? I could barely keep my eyes open as I yawned my way down the stairs and found my mom in the kitchen. She was eyeing the far corner cautiously, as if in a standoff with the espresso machine that sat on the soapstone countertop. “It’s time.” She glanced at me. Her mouth was almost a straight line, but one corner had tugged up with optimism. “We have to try.”

“No, we don’t,” I quickly said. “We don’t have to try anything.”

My mom turned and held up the Tupperware of biscotti Mrs. DeLuca had gifted us yesterday. Our neighbor was the one who’d passed down the espresso machine in the first place; she’d bought a bigger one but hadn’t wanted to get rid of the original. It was still in perfect working condition—supposedly. We’d never used it. “Lily, we must,” she said. “Mrs. DeLuca specifically said that the biscotti is best when dipped in a cappuccino.”