Tears covered my eyes. For the first time in my life, I cried publicly, and I didn’t even care. I, the great Arya Roth, symbol of independence and feminism. “You fool,” I groaned, pained. “You absolute, complete idiot. I’ve always loved you. Always been obsessed with you. I coaxed you into kissing me, for crying out loud.” I was laughing and crying now simultaneously, always a good look. “Every step of the way, I was the one to initiate things between us. The only reason why I didn’t run after you to Belarus when we were fourteen was because I was too embarrassed. I thought I was pestering you. I was mortified after what Conrad had done. Even then, I couldn’t stay away. Not all the way. I kept writing and hoping and praying.”
We still had that stupid table between us. I wanted to pick it up and hurl it across the room like the Hulk. Every moment not spent in his arms was a waste.
The restaurant rumbled. We both glanced at Alice, who was talking the barista’s ear off at the bar, licking the spoon of the tart she was devouring.
“So. I met your sugar mama.” I grinned.
“Arya.” Christian made a face full of regret. “The last thing I want to talk about right now is my sugar mama. Come here. I want to show you something.”
He led me out of the restaurant. We held hands. I’d never realized how right it felt. My palm in his. How perfectly we fit together. The street was bustling with the usual mix of traffic, tourists, and businesspeople. Christian tugged me into an alleyway, tucked in a corner between two buildings.
“Well, this is romantic.” I eyed the industrial trash can next to us. “And private.”
He laughed. “I like private. Last time I tried to kiss you out of my comfort zone, your father kicked my ass.”
“No chance of that happening again.” I smiled.
He held my face in his hands like I was precious. Like I was his. “No.” He shook his head, his nose brushing mine with each movement. “Because I will never let anything tear us apart again. Not ever.”
“I love you, Nicky.”
“I love you, Cecilia.” He dived down for a kiss. I swatted his chest and felt his laughter rumble beneath his hard pecs.
“Don’t ever call me someone else’s name when we kiss.”
“Same goes to you. It’s Christian now.”
“I thought you didn’t like me calling you Christian.”
The pieces of the puzzle had clicked together. The way he’d looked at me when we’d first tumbled into bed together. When I’d called him by his new name and he’d shriveled back.
Christian shook his head. “That was before you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I’m reborn.”
That was when Christian Miller kissed me again.
And this time, I knew, no one was going to take him away from me.
EPILOGUE
CHRISTIAN
Six Months Later
“Not too shabby for an office.” Riggs pokes at his lower lip, nodding to himself as he strolls along the reception area of Miller, Hatter & Co., my brand-new law firm. “Not worth the money you dropped on the interior designer, but not as soul crushing as other offices I’ve been to.”
“Thanks for the endorsement. Your opinion means a lot. Now get the hell out.” I stick my loafer between the elevator doors to ensure it doesn’t leave without him and Arsène. I check my Patek Philippe again. Five past three. She should be here any minute now.
“What’s the rush, Miller? Is Miss Has Your Balls in a Vise Grip coming over?” Arsène runs his hand over the sleek black marble of the reception counter.
It’s about to be Mrs. Has Your Balls in a Vise Grip if I have my way.
Weeks after resigning from Cromwell & Traurig, I ran into Jason Hatter and found out he was looking for a way out of his own firm too. We quickly realized we could establish a successful partnership, combining both our portfolios. That’s how Miller, Hatter & Co. was founded.
“Out,” I order. “Both of you. Before I wipe the floor with your asses.”
“Big deal. Your floor is cleaner than Hermione Granger’s rap sheet. First.” Riggs stops in front of the crème wall, checking each hanging picture in the waiting area individually, like his connection to art includes more than rolling a few curators between his bedsheets every now and then. “Tell us why you’re sweating like a whore in a confession booth.”
“I’m not sweating.” I scowl.
“You are, actually,” Arsène states before making a gagging sound. “You’re going to propose, aren’t you?”