“What do I do?” I whisper. Shutting my eyes, I let the cool wind kiss my skin. I let my heart slow and steady.
And then, like the smooth beauty of fresh-fallen snow, my mind becomes clear. I’m being…ridiculous. I walked into the middle of a conversation between two people who’ve shown me time and again that they’re worthy of my trust and they wouldn’t betray me. What am I thinking, running off like this? I’m safe with the Baileys and with Jonathan. There has to be a reason. An explanation—
“Gabby!” Jonathan’s voice carries from down the block.
And just like that morning he came running my way, he’s running again, hurdling snowbanks and dodging meandering couples. I watch him, tearing toward me, the wind whipping his dark hair, fire burning in those wintergreen eyes.
And then he comes to a halt at my feet, staring at me intensely, my headphones in hand. “I saw them,” he says. “And I knew you’d been there, and I don’t know what all you heard Gabby, but I promise I’m on your side—”
“I know.” I step close, wrapping my hand around his. “I know you are.”
His eyes search mine. “You do?”
I smile faintly, taking my headphones, setting them around my neck. “I do. And I’m on your side, too. I don’t know what you were discussing. I just know you’re afraid to tell me.”
“I…” He wraps his hands around my shoulders. “I tried so many times, but I was so scared you’d hate it.”
“I heard that part. But I trust you, Jonathan.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
He frowns. “That’s it?”
I nod, blinking away tears. “Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t mind hearing more about whatever ruthless capitalist measures you took to save the place that you’re so sure I’m going to despise you for, but I do trust you.”
His jaw ticks, like he’s steeling himself. “It’s…an online version of the bookstore. Hard copies, audio, e-books. Romance readers are our key segment, our number-one target customer. It’s going to drive traffic to the website and not necessarily to the brick-and-mortar store, and I know you hate that. I know you want the place brimming with people, like it once was, Gabby, but it was this kind of bookstore or no bookstore at all.” His eyes search mine. “I wanted it to be safe for you, to keep Bailey’s open for you for years and years. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the only way—”
“Jonathan,” I whisper.
He stares down at me, breathless, wide-eyed. He looks a little terrified.
“Thank you,” I tell him, bringing a hand to his face, softly stroking his cheek with my mittened thumb. “For explaining that. For…everything you did. I can’t begin to say how much it means, and I want to hear so much more, but the thing is…”
I stare up at Jonathan, and that tear within my heart stitches itself together, as everything I’ve come to admire and adore in these two men—my nemesis and my friend, my gritty reality and my sweetest escape—fuses into one breathtaking, perfectly imperfect reality.
Him.
“I actually have a date,” I whisper, still stroking his cheek. “And I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”
He stares at me very carefully, searching my expression. “As it happens, I do, too.”
Tears hover in my eyes, threatening to spill over. “Tell me where.”
He steps closer. “The Winter Wonderland at the conservatory,” he says softly, “10:00 a.m. sharp. I get to meet the MargaretCATwood of my dreams. And I can only hope—”
I throw myself at him, crush my mouth to his, hot and hard and frantic. His deep, rough groan makes my toes curl, makes sparks dance across my skin. Jonathan’s mouth opens for me, his tongue finds mine, and it’s hunger and waiting and longing and relief. It’s feverish and fervent, panting gasps as we clutch each other like the world’s ending and we’re holding on for dear life.
“Gabriella.” His hands drift down my back, grip my hips, holding me against him.
“Jonathan,” I whisper through tears, clutching him tight. “It’s you.”
He nods, his hands sliding along my back. “You’re not disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” I laugh through tears and kiss the corner of his mouth, his jaw, then suck the hollow of his throat, making his hips lurch against mine. “Am I acting disappointed?”
“No,” he says roughly, slipping a hand deep inside my hair, massaging my scalp, his other hand drifting up my waist. He kisses me again, deep and velvet hot. “No, you aren’t.”