Only and Forever (Bergman Brothers, #7)

by Chloe Liese

Beneath its brim, bright even in shadow, are those eyes. Those damn lovely Bergman eyes. So deceptively cold for such warm people. They’re the pale blue-gray of a winter sky heavy with the promise of snow, yet they throw heat like a fire that could thaw you on the most frigid of days, right to your bones.

Rooney and Axel sit side by side and pass each other books, a steady signing assembly line as they work their way through a tall stack of the children’s books they’ve published together, written by Rooney, illustrated by Axel. Rooney’s academic background is in science, and Axel’s a painter. Three years ago, they published their first book about exploring nature and taking care of the environment. Since then, they’ve published three more, featuring a group of kids who go on adventures and learn about the earth—everything from marine life to native plant habitats, growing a garden to weather systems.

Viggo stops, then spins, facing me again. He looks perplexed. “What is it?” I ask. “You didn’t think it was weird that I’ve named all my plants.” I shrug. “You have strong plant-daddy energy; I’m not surprised.” “I named them for romance authors. Lisa Kleypas. Beverly Jenkins. Tessa Dare. Lorraine Heath. Courtney Milan. Cat Sebastian—” “Again, I’m not surprised. You named your plants after authors you love. No knocks on that.”

I can be grating to spend extended periods of time around, especially when I’m fixated on a particular activity or outcome. I wouldn’t want you to feel cornered into something you’d regret.” Tallulah frowns at me. “Says who?” “Says who, what?” “Who,” she says calmly, but there’s an edge to her voice, “says you’re ‘grating’ to spend a lot of time around?” “Oh . . .” Heat creeps up my cheeks. I clear my throat. “Just . . . most of the people who’ve spent a lot of time around me.” “Then fuck them,” she says icily. “Fuck anyone who makes you feel like you’re too much. If they feel that way, they aren’t enough for you.”

the best kind of triumph—not a victory over her, but with her. This moment feels like a little win for both of us.

Love is stubborn and persistent, an indomitable weed that springs up in those slivers of soft soil in our concrete-jungle existence.

My ego is bone-china fragile.

He plucks at the fabric of another romance-lover T-shirt, fanning himself. This one bears a raised fist clutching a fanned-out handful of romance novels. Above it reads, Read romance. Fight the patriarchy.

I hoped sitting around a familiar group of people, a happy family, would make me feel better. But it just made me really fucking mad.” A twinge of recognition echoes inside me. “Why?” “Because they have something we’ll never have. Because that lack messed me up so bad, Tallulah. It messed us up, you, me, and Harry. And I felt so . . . helpless. I didn’t ask to be born to Mom and Dad. I had no choice in how dysfunctional they were and how that fundamentally shaped me.”

Again and again. I like the sound of that. More than I should. But God, is it easy to draw out this picture, months into years, Tallulah and I coaching soccer, Tallulah and I playing with my nieces and nephew. Tallulah and I cuddling, watching movies, putzing around the bookstore, walking the dogs. Tallulah and I . . . That’s a complete statement. That’s what I picture. Tallulah and I.

Viggo’s smile broadens and brightens. My mouth lifts reflexively, because that’s what happens now, like there’s a glowing, golden string connecting the corner of his mouth to mine. When he smiles, I smile.

When I’ve had my fill, at least for now, I turn, careful to be quiet and slow. I reach for my e-reader on the nightstand, power it to life, and turn the brightness down. 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.

“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.” One hand leaves my face, drifts down over my shoulder, before it settles on my chest. “So I want to be the one who goes first now, who tells you what I’ve been so terrified to believe, let alone say, but it’s no less true.” She swallows thickly, blinking away tears. “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’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.”