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He’s practiced what he’s going to say countless times—I’ve heard him, pacing in his room, his voice low and cadent.
“I love how much you care. I love how you love my sister.” I love you.
then settling back in, arm curled around me, nestling his head on my boobs. I laugh softly. “Getting comfy there?” “Mm-hmm.” He nuzzles me, his nose brushing my bare skin,
My hand drifts down his chest, tracing the tattoo, the landscape of this place he loves. My hands dance lower, over his ribs, which bear a black line tattoo I couldn’t see in the dark of the bookstore that night. I trace across fluttering pages of open books, nestled among hardy vines and peony flowers.
trace with my fingertips the flock of birds tattooed high across his thigh onto his hip, swirling my touch to the V at his stomach, over his pelvis.
I love you, I tell him with my touch, my eyes fastened on his. I love you.
Slowly, I bend and kiss him. I love you, I tell him with my lips’ serenade to his. I love you, I tell him, my hand resting over his heart.
His eyes slip closed. “You killed me dead.” “Death by orgasm. Not the worst way to go.” He smiles, eyes shut. “Just a metaphor, Clarke. I’m not going anywhere.” His words are slurred with sleepiness. My smile deepens. “Good. I want you around for a long time.” “Hmm.” His smile fades, sleep smoothing his expression. A soft snore rolls out of him. I bite my lip, smiling so wide it hurts. Tears settle in the corners of my eyes. I could stare at him, watch him sleep like this, naked and peaceful beside me, forever.
Blowing out a steady breath, I stare at the screen, my finger hovering over the title. One of his favorite historical romances, according to the adorably detailed “Bookseller’s Favorites” index cards he’s written and perched around titles he loves shelved across the store. I downloaded it before our flight. Finally, I tap it and watch the book open up. I settle in beside the man I love, a story he loves in my hands.
didn’t reciprocate, didn’t take care of her the way she’d so lovingly taken care of me. Lovingly.
I love her. I love Tallulah. And falling in love looked . . . nothing like I believed it would. It wasn’t sudden or showy, clean-cut or clear. It was uneven and unexpected, creeping quietly, a vine that began as a small, delicate shoot winding its way through me, until one day it was everywhere, twined through my heart, my mind, my life, every corner of it. God, I love her.
“I can’t,” I gasp, falling into my brother as he wraps his arms around me. There’s a quiet murmur of voices, chairs scraping, cups being set down. A door opens. I’m guided by my brother’s strong arm down the hall to an open door. That’s when I realize where I am, what’s happening. I stand at the threshold of the basement, watching my brothers trundle down the steps, knowing what I’m about to face, what’s been coming for me for years, what’s finally here. My own Bergman Brothers Summit.
“Welcome, Viggo,” Oliver says quietly, “to your very own Bergman Brothers Summit.”
accepting the black stuffed animal cat Seb’s been hugging. I hug it to my chest.
Walking the dogs, cuddling the cats. Coaching soccer. Living life. Falling for each other.
She adores you, Viggo. She said it with every glance at you last night, every time you said her name, every not-so-subtle touch you snuck in.
Tell her how you feel. You deserve to be honest with your heart, Viggo. And she deserves the chance to be honest with her heart, too.”
They all smile. I smile back, but it falters, fear rushing through me. “But first, could I just have a—” Gavin throws his arms around me. “Hug,” I whisper. Axel steps up next, his hand heavy on my back. Ryder, then Ren, circle around me, then Seb and Aiden, and finally Oliver, who clasps my neck. “Love you guys,” I whisper. “We love you,” they tell me, loud and strong, and that strength, that truth, pours through me, fills me up, gives me the courage to pull back and stand tall.
“Axel’s been a little on edge lately.” “I have good reason,” he mutters into her hair. She glances up at him, cupping his face. “I’m pregnant, Ax, not sick.” All our mouths fall open. Rooney glances our way slowly, eyes wide. “Oh boy. I said the quiet part out loud.”
blink down at them, realization dawning as I take in my appearance. White undershirt. And blue . . . boxers. I glance up, blushing. “I coulda sworn I’d put on shorts. You could have said something!” I tell everyone. Frankie shrugs. “We’ve all survived your Speedo shows at the beach. Nothing fazes us now.”
“Shoes!” Mom yells. I freeze, then glance over my shoulder at Mom, who walks toward me, smiling, my chukka boots in her hands. “You always loved to run barefoot, Viggo, I know. But I think you’re going to want shoes for this.” “Thanks, Mom.” I smile as she gives me a kiss on the cheek, then take them from her, dropping the boots to the floor and stepping into them, before I turn toward the door.
“Be brave, Viggo. We’re right here behind you.”
love the lupine field, played in it with my siblings when we were kids, crouching among the two-foot-tall flowers that mingled in the taller grass, leaping out and startling the hell out of each other.
It’s the first place Ziggy tickled me so hard after I caught her off guard, I laughed until I peed myself.
It’s my favorite, most nostalgic spot on the property. And when I turn the corner around the last big tree, breaking into the field, it’s cemented as my most favorite place ever. Because she’s here. Tallulah. Bent over the flowers, wearing a sunshine-yellow shirt, one of her stylish long cardigans tied around her waist as she picks a cluster of blue lupines.
My heart thuds in my chest as warmth spills through my limbs, its truth as vital to my existence as the blood swimming in my veins: I love her. I know my heart. With every step I take closer to her deepening smile, her glittering eyes, I feel sure of it: Tallulah knows my heart, too. And I know hers just as much. The wind dances past me, swaying the grass. I love you. My smile deepens as I grow closer, holding her eyes. I love you.
“Since I saw you last year, about to fall on your ass off that chair, you have gone first, given your smiles, your kindness, your home, your friendship . . . your heart.”
“I love you, Viggo. And I know I’m no love expert, not the way you are, but I know my heart, and this is true: I love you.
“I could have danced around that word for as long as I lived, but it would never have changed what you mean to me. It could never change that my world is meant to have you right at the heart of it, that my life is wider and brighter and sweeter for sharing it with you. I want to dream dreams and work hard and hold hands and face whatever comes with you.
“I love you, Viggo Bergman. I mean it with my whole heart.”
“I love you, Tallulah. My Lulaloo, I love you so much, so deeply, I can’t even find the words to describe it, which, I’ll admit, after reading five hundred–plus romance novels, is a bit humbling, and yet that’s just it, Tallulah—I love those love stories, but they’re not ours. Our love story is the only one I want.”
“I’m no love expert, but I think I just might be an expert on loving you. Because you were meant for me, Tallulah, and I was meant for you. Your heart was meant to be with mine; I believe that.” Clasping her hand where it rests over my pounding heart, I tell her, “And my heart was meant to be with yours. It is yours. It always has been.” Bending, I kiss her, gentle and reverent, forehead to forehead. “My heart has been, and always will be, only and forever yours.”
“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I’d throw my whole wardrobe beneath us right now and ruin it, if you asked me to.”
“Verbal foreplay—big thing for me, apparently.” I smile against her mouth. “I got you horny with my words. My romantic words.” “I’m a woman reborn,” she pants,
Stars dance in my vision. This is not going to last long. “Who the hell cares?” she pants. Seems I said that out loud.
“I love you,” she whispers. “I’ll never get tired of saying it.” “Good,” I tell her, bending, kissing her once more, gentle and soft. “Because I’ll never get tired of hearing it.” Tipping my head, I drink her in, save this memory, vivid and precious, tucked away to have for always. “I love you, too.” Her smile deepens. “I know. Now,” she whispers against my cheek, kissing it sweetly.
So long as I can get a guarantee that you’ll save a dance for me afterward?” “Silly man,” she whispers. “Every dance is yours. And every karaoke song.”
“There’s just one small problem.” Her fingers trail through my hair. “What’s that?” she asks. “My legs don’t work.” Tallulah laughs. “I’m serious,” I tell her, exhaling heavily as I push up on my elbows. “God, this is euphoria, isn’t it? I feel like those cows just let out of the barn after winter.” Tallulah blinks up at me. “What?” “In Sweden, the cows, they’re kept inside all winter, and it’s a whole day, everyone gathers to see it, when they let them out in spring. Much like my rather speedy performance, those happy fuckers sprint out of the barn, leaping and bounding—as well as cows
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“Your legs seem to be back to their old selves, Bergman.” I smile up at Viggo as he sashays toward me, twinkly lights strung across the deck bathing him in a magical golden glow. “And you,” he says, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me close, the slow dance music swelling around us, “have finally stopped walking like you got railed in a flower field this morning.” I gasp. Viggo grins devilishly and wiggles his eyebrows. “I love scandalizing you.”
“I guess we’ll just have to enjoy scandalizing each other.”
“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you,” I whisper back. My smile is so wide, it makes my cheeks ache.
He’s quiet, which is so rare, but he doesn’t feel quiet. His grip around my waist is tight and sure, his eyes locked on mine. I feel his love, its reality so visceral, so powerful, it’s unlike anything I’ve known.
“I love you,” I tell him. He smiles. “I know. I love you, too, Lula.”
empty A-frame, family long gone since this morning, leaving us to have what we needed—a place to be together, to love each other, just the two of us.
I stare at him with wonder, overwhelmed with knowing he loves me, knowing I love him, too.
“You’re always lovely to me. Bigfoot beard or not.”
“I love you, Lula,” he whispers, planting a tender kiss to my thigh. I smile down at him. “I love you, Viggo.”
“I love you,”
“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, Lula, with all my heart.”
