“What then, I was to have dropped to my knees and thanked you for condescending to offer me your love?” He froze, his mouth open, words lost. He never seemed to have the right ones with her. Too often they were lies, and when they were truth—they were never enough. “Or, what?” she prodded. “To profess my own feelings?” “That would not have been unwelcome. And I might remind you that seconds ago, your kiss made a profession of its own.” “Kisses have never been our failing.” “What then?” he pushed her. Knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing he must. “What has been our failing?” “What hasn’t?” She spread
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