He nods. “And then we shared. And it felt so . . . intimate. I was out with you, Freya Bergman, this knockout of a woman who was radiant—passion and vitality lighting you up from a place so deep within that I wanted desperately to know. A woman who painted her toes electric pink and sang along to music blasting from the outdoor speakers and stole my vanilla ice cream.” His eyes search mine. “You felt like the missing part of my life.” Tears sting my eyes.
