30| Belle of the ball

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Music spills out from the ballroom and fills the palpable silence. Milo looks me over, trailing the length of my neck and collarbone before settling on my dress. His eyes somehow darken and brighten all at once.

"You look–" he looks up and runs a hand along his jaw. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was lost for words. "Beautiful."

I don't answer right away because I'm lost for words too. His suit is black and makes him look ridiculously handsome, like someone who belongs on the cover of GQ. Just in case this all goes south, I take a mental snapshot and store it in my memory. "So do you."

Another moment passes before either of us speaks. There's somehow too much to say and nothing to say at all. Milo steps forward, slow and deliberate, like he thinks I might bolt. Little does he know, I'm not going anywhere.

"Heard you quit," he says.

"I did." I step closer, too, trying to close the distance between us. "A few days ago. If I can't find an agency that aligns more with my interests, I figure I'll try and start my own." His eyebrows knit together in the middle. The corner of his mouth twists. Clearly, he thinks this is somehow his fault, and I have to rectify that. "I mean, I didn't do it for us," I say, and the furrow of his brow releases, "I did it for myself."

"I wouldn't want it any other way," he agrees.

And that, I realize, is why I love him. Why, deep down, I'm willing to risk it all. Men like Milo don't come around often, and I'll be damned if I let him get away. My next step is a slow one. The air feels magnetic, drawing me closer until I'm standing in front of him, a hair's breadth away from his chest. He tenses, eyes dark as they drop to my lips and back up. The muscles in his neck contract.

Never have I felt more nervous. For better or worse, this is the moment where everything changes. Either we agree to make this work, or we decide to walk away: no second guessing or chances or living in between.

No running.

My breathing feels shallow as I tilt my head, looking at him through my lashes. "So, I went to LA for a few days."

He doesn't look surprised. "Any particular reason why?"

"I wanted time to process quitting my job," I say, "but also because–" I stop and search his guarded expression, unable to find the right words. What if leaving him hanging made things worse? What if he doesn't understand? "Do you remember at the cabin when I told you my biggest fear?"

He nods. "Being alone."

Something inside me swells at the fact he'd even remembered. "Right. Well, I needed to make sure that if this–" I gesture wildly between us like it makes what I'm saying any clearer, "–happened, it wasn't just because I was afraid of being alone. It's because I wanted it."

His eyes turn hooded. He lowers his head so his lips are near mine. By this point, he's close enough for me to make out the slivers of silver in his eyes. "And your conclusion?"

I reach up now, pulling him closer by the back of his neck, our lips almost touching. His breathing is rough, warm against the bow of my lips. Heat starts to pool in my thighs.

He doesn't kiss me; he's upholding his promise until I give him the go-ahead, but his mouth is so close that he might as well be. Voice low, he tucks a curtain of hair behind my ear and moves his mouth near my ear. "I need you to say it, Kennedy."

Eyes closed, I briefly recall what he'd said in the elevator. You either want this, or you don't, and the next time I kiss you, there'll be no turning back. Hearing that back then terrified me. No turning back seemed so final somehow, no take-backs or do-overs. But now, the idea of not turning back is what comforts me the most.

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