Meeting Miss Mystic (34 page)

“Maybe tell me later?” he suggested gently, offering her a reprieve, pressing his lips to hers one more time. This time he deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue past her lips and winding one strong arm around her body, pulling her up against him.

This is Holly. This is Zoë. And she’s mine. And I love her.

When he drew back, he almost wondered if he’d said the words out loud because she stared at him with such wonder in her eyes, he knew they’d never get past the bottom step of her inn if he didn’t stop kissing her.

He tugged on her hand and started walking back toward his house.

“We’ll take my car, okay?”

***

There was something different about that kiss.

No, not just different. New.

She clasped his hand tighter as he talked about the dance, and she only half listened, having already heard the details from Nils. She couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss he’d just given her. It was so tender, so possessive…it’s not that it felt more emotional than other kisses they’d shared. But more open. As though some barrier that had kept him from her had been eliminated. Was it his feelings for Holly dying? Was that it?

Because that kiss was about all or nothing. No. There was no “nothing” about it. That kiss was about “all.” About being all in. About love. That’s it, she thought, and her hand may have trembled in his as the realization became truth. Love. It was all about love.

But he couldn’t love her yet! Not like this. She needed more time. She needed to tell him—

“You’re quiet,” he said, breaking into the urgency of her thoughts as he led them down his driveway, opening the passenger side of his black Jeep.

She stepped into the SUV and buckled her seatbelt.

He circled around and sat down next to her, putting his keys in the ignition then turning to her before starting the car.

He was wearing a light blue dress shirt tucked into khaki pants, and he wore the preppy New England look like he was born to it. He had the shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his tan, muscular arm, dusted with freckles and curly blond hairs that were soft under her fingers when she reached out to touch him.

“You okay?” he asked.

She looked up at him, searching his eyes with hers
. Do you love me? Will you still love me when I tell you the truth? Is there anything I can do to ensure you will? Because I can’t bear to lose you.

She took a deep breath and gave him a small smile before looking away. “I just missed you. That’s all. I’m glad to be with you again.”

“Zoë,” he started, his voice serious, “before you said you wanted to tell me something. If there’s something on your mind, I mean—we can talk.”

She turned to look at him, remembering the reality between them. Tonight might be all she had with him. If he pushed her away after she told him who she really was, she would turn and walk away. She had promised herself. She wouldn’t put him through any more if he rejected her once he knew the truth. But she couldn’t give up whatever time they had left together.

“No,” she said, deliberately lightening her voice. “I’m just happy to see you. Well, and…I leave on Saturday morning. It makes me sad. But, I’m not going to let it ruin tonight.”

“Saturday morning isn’t the end of us,” he said softly, reaching for her hand.

“No?” she asked, her heart beating faster.

“No way. This is just the beginning.”

“It is?”

“Definitely.”

She clenched her teeth together, tears springing up in the backs of her eyes. Could she do this? Could she enjoy tonight knowing she had to tell him the truth before they said good-night? He squeezed her hand, but she couldn’t look at him. If she did, she’d start to cry. The answer was no. She’d finally come to the end of the line; she had no strength left to carry on the charade.

“Paul—” she started.

“Zoë—” he said.

“You first,” she said, staring down at the hand on her lap.

“I have surprise for you. I was going to save it until after the dance, but I’d like to give it to you now if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” she murmured, taking a deep, uneven breath.

He dropped her hand and started the car.

***

When she’d mentioned leaving on Saturday, something inside of him had changed, snapped, hit a wall.

Theoretically, he knew she’d be leaving at some point, of course, but he hadn’t spent a lot of time dwelling on it, at first because he didn’t feel right pursuing her, and then because he couldn’t imagine his life without her. Because he knew even if she had to go back to Connecticut, they were far from over.

But hearing her say the words “I’m leaving” suddenly made the reality less theoretical and more actual, and Paul found he couldn’t stand to waste another moment of their time together with half-truths hovering between them. It was time for them both to come clean, and if she couldn’t bring herself to initiate the conversation, he would.

He’d meant to save this surprise for the end of their night together, but from the moment he’d picked her up, her eyes—her beautiful baby blues—had been unbearably sad and conflicted. If they didn’t talk, it would be a miserable evening filled with fake levity and inner turmoil, grinding out the hours until she confessed. He wanted to get it over with. He wanted her to feel the same freedom to love him that he felt to love her, and he’d figured out the perfect way earlier today.

So, he’d surprise her now, not later. Hell, they’d waited long enough to be together.

He drove in silence down the two or three blocks to his school pulling up in the fire lane, in front of the double doors.

“School?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling at her with every bit of love in his heart. “Do you trust me?”

Her face flushed and she bowed her head. He knew that the word “trust” had hit an open nerve.

He reached over and cupped her cheeks, forcing her to meet his eyes, briefly surprised by bright blue where brown used to be.

“Zoë, love. Just trust me,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a light kiss to her lips before drawing back and opening his door. He walked around the car to help her out, taking her hand and leading her to the front door.

***

His words seared her soul. He asked for her trust when she hadn’t been able to offer him honesty. It just about flattened her.

At the same time, she couldn’t deny that underneath all of her fear and regret, curiosity was also making a play for her attention. What were they doing at his school? Wasn’t the plan dinner and the dance and then—unknown to him—her choking out her confession that she was really Holly? What was going on?

He unlocked the door and pulled her inside, lacing his fingers through hers, the dim red glow from the emergency lights making the school hallways a shaded rose color that felt strangely warm and intimate in such a cold and public place. Her flip-flops smacked lightly on the shiny tiles as he pulled her in the direction of the art studio where she’d pilfered supplies on Sunday.

“Zoë, I have a confession.”

He
had a confession?

“I can really seem like a jerk about some things,” he continued. “Shallow. About looks and status. It’s a remnant of my fairly screwed-up childhood to be initially impressed with beauty or power, but I swear to God, it’s not really who I am. It’s just a shitty leftover bit of my upbringing. The truth is, I care about who people are, not what they look like or what they do.”

She was following his words, one by one, unable to process where he was going or the big picture of what he was saying.

“Okay,” she whispered beside him, and he squeezed her hand tighter.

“If it ever turned out that I made someone I loved feel less than spectacular, less than wonderful, less than
amazing
, I’d hate myself for it, even if it was inadvertent.”

“Paul,
you’re
the most amazing per—”

“No.” He stopped in front of the art studio door and took her other hand. “You are.”

His eyes sparkled in the dim light, bright and shiny with emotion, as she held them.

“I’m not,” she insisted. The words were soft and thready, a sob waiting in the back of her throat. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes. She looked away.

“Zoë.” He squeezed her hands, demanding her eyes again, and they prickled and watered behind her glasses until one tear fell from the well of her eyes, coursing by her nose to rest on her lip. He reached up to brush it away with his thumb.

“
You
are the most amazing person, Zoë. The bravest. The kindest. The sexiest, most tempting girl I ever met in my entire life. And I will never love anyone as much as I love you.”

Her face crumpled and her head fell forward, shaking back and forth in misery.

“I’m not. You don’t know,” she sobbed.

“I know, Zoë. I know who you are, Zoë Holly Flannigan,” he said, and her head snapped up, blue eyes wide and watery and shocked. He flicked his eyes to the art studio door and when she followed them, she saw a neatly handwritten sign taped over the existing teacher’s name, reading “Miss Flannigan.”

“I need an art teacher. I was sort of hoping you’d stay.”

Chapter 19

It was too much.

It was too much to have everything her heart desired presented to her so hopefully, so lovingly, as though she deserved such immense, selfless sweetness in her broken life.

Her face fell and her chin hit her chest. Her shoulders rolled forward as all of her fears and sadness and worry engulfed her, chased by bewilderment and—finally, unbelievably—relief. Sobs wracked her body as she clutched her arms around her chest, which heaved from the effort of crying.

It was too much goodness for her to process at once. She wasn’t supposed to win. She wasn’t supposed to have good things in her life. She wasn’t supposed to have this sort of love. She wasn’t supposed to be happy. Not like this. Not like fairy tale-style happy. She didn’t deserve it. No matter what he said, she didn’t deserve it. And yet…here it was.

He pulled her into his arms, offering her sanctuary and solace, offering her his compassion and understanding and love. She pressed her cheek against his chest, trying to convince herself that this was real, that his beating heart belonged to her.

“Aw, sweetheart. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, Zoë. It’s going to be okay now.”

“Y-you knew?” she asked, realizing he’d just called her by “Holly’s” nickname and the sweetness of it made her sob harder.

“Not all along. I figured it out on the phone. Tuesday morning.”

His hands rubbed her back, slowly up and down, as her sobs subsided to those deep, intense ragged breaths that follow an epic cry.

“Can we sit down?” she asked, the shakiness of her legs a result of her feelings, not her injuries.

“Sure.”

He slid down the painted cement block wall behind him, settling on the floor, holding a hand up to her. She took it and sat down beside him.

“Too far away,” he said, pulling her between his legs and wrapping his arms around her.

“You don’t hate me?” she asked softly, laying her tired head back against his shoulder, trying to get her mind around the full scope of massive shift between them.

“I just told you that I love you, woman. Weren’t you listening to my speech?”

A laugh bubbled up inside of her as she leaned back to stare up at his face, comfortable against him, in the bliss of his arms.

He knew. He knew who she was. And he still loved her. Still wanted her.

“Oh, man. I always loved that giggle. From the beginning.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“I was.” His face grew dark for a moment. “I was pretty angry on Tuesday.”

“What happened? How did you—”

“How did I get from there to here?”

She nodded then put her head back on his shoulder, and he moved his hand to the bare skin of her shoulder, rubbing and caressing distractedly.

He sighed. “Maggie, partly. I lit into her on Tuesday morning, but she explained a lot to me. How you felt unlovable after your accident, which kills me since you’re the most…” His voice broke and he pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head, before resting his cheek on her black hair. “She and Jane helped me see that you’re you, whether you’re Holly or Zoë. They helped me see how much courage it took for you to come out here.”

“But I lied to you.”

“You did.” He nodded behind her. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. Not ever.” Then she added, turning to look at him, “Can you really trust me?”

He searched her eyes before offering her a reassuring smile. “I want to.”

“I promise I’ll never lie to you again. Not about anything. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“I’m not hurting anymore, Zoë.”

His face was so bare, so open and vulnerable and stunningly beautiful, her breath caught.

“You know,” she whispered with wonder. Tears flooded her eyes again as she gazed at him in the ethereal pink glow of the empty hallway. “You know who I am. You have no idea where I was when you found me. You gave me hope that life still had something good in the wings for me. You gave me my life back.”

She rotated in his arms, kneeling between his legs, reaching up to touch his cheeks, tentatively at first, with tenderness and awe.

“You know who I am. My God, what a relief,” she whispered, cradling his face in her hands.

She leaned forward and he bowed his head as she tilted her head so their lips fit together perfectly, soft and flush, waiting, then ready, for each other. He slid his hands down her back to her hips, kneading his fingers into the soft flesh, before moving them around to rest them flat on her thighs.

She broke off their kiss and drew back from him, capturing his eyes. His hand was resting over the ragged bunches of scar tissues on her right thigh.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of her broken flesh through the fabric of her dress.

Zoë swallowed against the painful lump in her throat as big tears ran down her cheeks, but she didn’t look away and he didn’t move his hand. The old question haunted her…
What if I repulse him when he sees?
How can anyone love this fractured, imperfect body?