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Well, I hate elevators when I’m pregnant. It feels like his feet are in my throat when we descend.”
Elevators really do kick you in the throat.
Nice callback.
Only the damn Fairways could force a man who hates snot to become a slime fighter.
I like the way this author writes. Callback metaphors are my favorite.
He’s touch-starved, so heartbreakingly touch-starved that I don’t know how I didn’t notice it sooner. When his arms close tighter around me, I can’t help but wonder if I am, too.
🥺
The way his arms encircle me as we kiss feels like he’s practiced it a thousand times before. It’s effortless and natural, like it should have happened a thousand times before. Us. This.
🥹
“You’re perfect,” he whispers between little kisses that light up every hair follicle on my body. “You’re so freaking perfect.” I’m not. I never have been. I never will be, but he makes me feel like I am and could be.
My stomach is slick. Whether it’s from him or me seems inconsequential. There’s going to be a Cameron imprint in it by the time we’re done.
I honestly can’t remember what I sent him now, but I know whatever I’d settled on was smaller than that weapon-of-ass-destruction that he texted me a picture of.
🤣
This entire evening is my love letter, but I’ve never written one.
Any effort I put into being Unleashed Pete a moment ago is no longer needed. That persona hops off the bench, swaggers up to the plate, and slaps me on the back, officially tagging himself in with a vengeance.
I hope that Pete is prepared to be responsible for my heart and soul because I think I just cracked open and let both spill into his capable hands.
The surrounding forest looked like the scene of an impending crime when we pulled over, but now has a majestic-ness to it that I commit to memory. I’m tempted to step into the tree line and retrieve some rocks to erect a cairn at the side of the road. This spot is no longer just some insignificant point halfway between Bellevue and Wenatchee. It’s the place where my misery died, and the rest of my life began.
