“This—is the way I wanted it to be,” she admitted. “With you. I wanted it to be like this with you.” He went very still. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it wasn’t,” he finally said, pulling her closer. Had he ever actually been like this? She wondered sometimes how much of her drunken memory of kissing him was real. Or if she’d invented all the intimacy to replay when her life felt too void of any tenderness.
