We stand in a corner, checking out the scene. Sloan is dressed as a horse and drunk off his ass. Every few minutes, he lets out a truly awful braying sound that makes everyone within a ten-foot radius either wince with annoyance or roar with laughter, depending entirely on the amount of champagne they’ve consumed. My heart stops at one point when I think I spot a familiar head of long hair in the crowd, tied back by a leather strap, but I must be imagining things because when I glance back mere seconds later, there’s no sign of those broad shoulders stuffed into a tuxedo anywhere in the sea of masked strangers.

  Harper and I are lurking on the side of the dance floor watching our equine, highly-inebriated director cut a rug with a woman dressed as a court jester, when Masters appears. He’s not wearing a mask, because apparently macho tough guys don’t partake in silly things like masquerade parties and costumes. He extends a hand in Harper’s direction.

  “Dance with me.” He doesn’t ask.

  She doesn’t object. “Okay.”

  They drift off onto the dance floor and I hover on the outskirts of the crowd, watching couples spin and rock and sway in time to the music. It’s a slow song — the kind made for prom queens and inaugural balls. Your hands around his shoulders, your cheek pressed to his chest; his palms at your waist, his breath at your temple. I watch all the happy pairs and feel strangely alone.

  It’s five minutes to midnight and excitement is building to a crescendo. People are getting ready to countdown the seconds to a new year, to seal the start of a fresh calendar page with a kiss on the lips of the person you love most. Abruptly, it all feels rather wrong. Because the person I want most by my side, ringing in a new year, is somewhere else. With someone else. Starting his year with her instead of me.

  And I have tried.

  For weeks. Every day, every minute, every hour. An everlasting test of my emotional endurance.

  I have attempted to let him go. To tell myself he’s better off without me. To push him from my head and try to be okay without him. To be happy for him, because he’s found someone who makes him happy.

  But in this moment, watching everyone dance in a room filled to the brim with excitement and anticipation, I cannot try anymore. Cannot pretend I don’t want him with me. Beneath this mask, expression hidden from the masses, I finally let my shield down and allow the utter devastation of the truth to sweep through me.

  I am in love with my best friend.

  And I have lost him.

  Unable to witness the love around me, unable to stand here counting down the moments with the joyful crowd when I feel nothing but sorrow, I slip into the kitchen, dodging several cater-waiters, and make my way out onto Sloan’s terrace. It’s abandoned — everyone has gone inside for the midnight champagne toast. The silent air is a blessing after the crush of conversation.

  I look out over the sprawl of Los Angeles far below and wonder which of those many, infinitesimal lights belongs to him. Which speck of brightness marks the spot where my heart beats, since it no longer resides in my chest and has flung itself foolishly into his unshakable hands.

  Where are you?

  Maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s weak… but in this moment, I need him like the ocean needs the moon to set her tides.

  I hear them starting the countdown inside — a muffled chant. I don’t think. I don’t talk myself out of it. I don’t even try to resist the urge that overcomes me.

  59… 58… 57…

  I pull my cellphone out of my clutch purse with shaky fingers.

  54… 53… 52…

  I scroll to the end of my contact list.

  48… 47… 46…

  I press his name.

  43… 42… 41…

  It rings. Rings. Rings.

  37… 36… 35…

  No answer.

  Of course — what kind of person is checking their phone at midnight on New Year’s Eve?

  33… 32… 31…

  His gruff voice implores me to leave a message. The voicemail picks up with a long beep.

  28… 27… 26…

  “Wyatt… It’s Kat.” I breathe deeply. “But you never call me that. You call me Katharine. Or baby. Or crazy. Or… you used to. Now, you don’t call me much of anything. Now, I’m lucky if you even look at me.” My voice breaks. I hear the chant inside, getting louder, picking up steam as more voices join in.

  20… 19… 18…

  “I don’t know why I’m calling,” I whisper into the phone. “Actually, that’s a lie. I’m calling because it’s New Year’s Eve, and you aren’t here. You’re never here, anymore. And I get it — you’re happy. You have her, and everything has changed between us. And I’m… I’m happy for you.” My voice cracks again and I laugh brokenly. “Actually, that’s not exactly true. I’m really, really trying to be happy for you. I swear I am. But it’s really hard, because Wyatt… you’re my best friend. And I miss you. I miss you so much I can’t even breathe.”

  14… 13… 12…

  “I hope, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing tonight, whoever you’re spending it with… you’re happy. That’s it. That’s all.” I take in a gulp of air that sounds a lot like a sob.

  9… 8… 7…

  “Happy New Year, Wyatt. I hope you know that I… that I…”

  6… 5… 4…

  I click off the phone and contemplate tossing it into the pool. I stare at my feet, breathing hard. Fighting down the last part of my message that I couldn’t force myself to say. Three little words stuck in the back of my throat, suffocating me. I have to let them out.

  “That I love you,” I say to the night. Testing it out with only the shadows to hear.

  3… 2… 1…

  “I LOVE YOU!” I scream out loud, at the top of my lungs, anguish seeping into every syllable. The sound is swallowed up by the huge swell of voices inside.

  HAPPY NEW YEAR!

  They’re cheering and clapping, kissing and hugging.

  And I am weeping.

  Because I love, love, love Wyatt Hastings.

  My Viking.

  My novelist.

  My sunshine.

  My best friend.

  He’s not here. We aren’t together. I don’t deserve him.

  But that doesn’t change a damn thing. My choice is made. The thumping organ inside my chest has finally sworn its allegiance, and I fear there is no going back.

  Love isn’t some unavoidable destiny, some fate you can’t sidestep. It’s a choice you make — and keep making — every day of your life.

  His arms, so safe, so strong. A home, made of flesh and bone.

  His eyes, so blue, so bottomless. A whole future in their depths.

  No instant, inexplicable connection or unhealthy co-dependence. Just a story about two people who choose to be together — not because they have to, but because they want to. Even when it’s hard. Even when the whole world is stacked against them.

  I don’t need him.

  If I never feel his touch again, never kiss his lips or grip his hips as he thrusts into me in slow, delicious strokes, never run my hands through his hair or know the joy of making him laugh… I will survive. The world will not stop turning. My heart will not stop beating.

  Years will pass, I will ache with each moment without him, but still, I will survive. Hollowed out, perhaps, but still breathing. Still living. Still existing.

  I. Don’t. Need. Him.

  …But I want him.

  I want him more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. Regardless of the mess I’ve made, regardless of the fool I’ve been, regardless of Grayson and Caroline and the tiny dictator and the press tour and all the other seemingly insurmountable factors in my life…

  I choose him.

  “There’s no need to yell, baby.”

  The sound of his voice so close behind me, so full of hope and wonder and heartache, makes me go still. It is a bullet of calm fired through a night of chaos. It tears through me, a devastating death strike. My clutch purse tumbles to the terrace, my cellphone slips out of my grip. I don’t bend to retrieve them. I whip around, barely breathing, barely allowing myself to believe it might be real. Telling myself I’m going crazy, because there’s simply no way he’s actually here.

  But he is.

  Ten

  “I was told there would be cake.”

  - An unwilling plus-one at a wedding.

  He stands there, five feet away, ruining me without a single word.

  It seems there are a million miles to traverse in that short distance as I stare into his eyes, locked on mine behind a simple black satin mask. He’s dressed in a tuxedo tailored so sharply he looks like a magazine model, but I barely notice. My eyes are on his, and we’re having another of our wordless conversations.

  You’re here, I drink in the sight of him. I can’t believe you’re here.

  His mouth tugs up at one corner. Of course I’m here.

  My voice shakes almost as badly as my knees. “I didn’t see you inside.”

  “I know.” His voice is carefully empty. He doesn’t close the gap between us.

  “Did you see me?”

  His eyes answer. I always see you, Katharine.

  My heart is pounding. “I needed some air.”

  He nods, saying nothing.

  “I also… ” I take a breath and string the words together. “I wanted to call you. I left a message.”

  His eyes ask a question he doesn’t vocalize.

  Why?

  I take a tiny step, wishing my knees weren’t trembling. Wishing I were stronger, that this was easier, as I listen to the crowd inside singing off-key, their voices slurring the familiar lyrics.

  Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…

  “Wyatt,” I whisper. “I wanted to tell you… I had to tell you…”

  A muscle jumps in his jaw, the only sign he’s at all affected by my words. I see the tension brewing inside him, tightly reined, and I realize he’s waiting. Not pushing. Never pressuring. Giving me time to find my voice. Because he knows me. He knows it’s not easy for me to lay myself bare.

  Allowing yourself to be weak is the hardest thing in the world. But maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe, when it’s damn near impossible, it means you have something to lose. Something that matters.

  My eyes hold his.

  He’s still waiting. He’d wait a lifetime. He told me as much, a long time ago, back before I ever really knew him.

  “I’m waiting for the right girl.”

  “What if she never comes along?”

  “She will.”

  “You seem awfully certain of that.”

  “I am.”

  “You could be waiting a long time.”

  “It doesn’t matter how long I have to wait. Because I’m waiting for my wife. And, however long it takes her to find me, I know she’ll be worth every second.”

  The fear disappears. The self-doubt and nagging insecurities go up in smoke.

  He will never push me.

  He will never force me.

  He will just love me, unfailingly, with limitless patience and quiet strength.

  I can freely place my heart in those big, capable hands and know without a shred of uncertainty that he will never, ever drop it.

  I steady my shoulders. I take that final step, until we’re a hairsbreadth apart, the last remaining sliver of space between us so full of tension it’s practically humming. And I say the words that finally bring an end to his wait.

  “I might be bad at it. I might screw it up. I might make a mess of us. But here’s the thing.” My hands shake like mad as I reach up and slide them onto his shoulders. My palms barely skim the fabric of his tuxedo jacket, but I feel his whole frame shudder like I’ve electrocuted him. “I want an us. I want to try. I want to be with you.” My voice breaks. “I know, last time, you thought I fell into your arms to get over someone else. I know you thought it meant nothing to me. But you were wrong.”

  My fingers brush the exposed skin of his neck as I press my body fully against his, my every curve plastered against the strong planes of his chest. He groans faintly, the only betrayal of his emotions, as though the merest graze of my fingertips might just be his undoing.

  I press closer.

  Closer, closer, closer.

  And yet, not close enough.

  “You were never a consolation prize, Wyatt. You were an unexpected gift, one I’d never allowed myself to hope for, except maybe in the darkest reaches of my heart, because I didn’t think it was possible someone like you could ever love someone like me.”

  I stare into his eyes, two oceans on fire with heat. Somehow he’s keeping it leashed so I can finish. And I find, when the time comes, I don’t stutter. I don’t flail. I don’t babble. There’s no hesitation — just a deep inner strength I wasn’t even sure I had, until this moment, back in the arms of the man I was never meant to fall for, but somehow always meant to end up with.

  “I love you, Wyatt. I love you. I love you. I love—”

  His arms come around me so hard I worry they’ll crush my ribs into dust. My words disappear on a gust of air as he lifts me clean off my feet, but I don’t care because I no longer need words. Vowels and consonants and silly little syllables lose all meaning because his lips, curved in an undeniable grin, land on mine. He kisses me and I taste joy and heat and passion all blended into one on the tip of my tongue.

  This is what love tastes like. Looks like. Feels like.

  Love is the color of his bold blue eyes. Love is the sound of his heartbeat. Love is the taste of his mouth on mine. Love is a corporeal thing, something birthed into existence between two people whose passions combine. Love is tangible, implacable, irrepressible. It’s him and me, light and dark, sunshine and shadow, choosing each other no matter the cost. Choosing to fight, regardless of the outcome.

  His lips devour mine like a tornado, bowling me over. I surrender to the storm, clinging to his shoulders and allowing him to wreck me with each brush of his mouth. If not for his arms around me, I’d fall to the ground, unable to keep myself upright. We’re both shaking with the intensity of our desire when he finally pulls back to let me breathe. The need is almost unstoppable. We’ve waited too long to taste each other again, let too many hours pass without the stroke of each other’s hands.

  We are fire and gasoline, ready to combust at the single strike of a match.

  I know there are things we need to discuss. Important, vital, immeasurable things. And yet, I can’t seem to think of a single one of them as he looks into my eyes with such longing, my heart nearly shatters at the sight of it.

  I need you, I need you, I need you.

  In my arms, in my bed.

  Under my skin, under my sheets.

  He sets me down on shaking feet and twines his hand with mine. And we run — through the sliding doors, past the clustered party guests still celebrating some holiday I cannot even recall the name of, straight by Harper and Masters, who stare at us with stunned smiles on their faces, and out the front door. We don’t stop or speak as we race for his car, the night air sliding against my heated skin like a caress. The whole world has narrowed to a single feeling — his hand, wrapped around mine.

  We zip out of the driveway. His house isn’t far; a ten-minute drive through the winding bends of the Hills.

  We make it in five.

  The engine is barely off when he rounds the hood and yanks me bodily from my seat. I see the savage look in his eyes as he rips the satin mask from his face and tosses it to the ground. I recognize the raw carnality brewing inside him a second before his mouth lands on mine. My heart pounds at twice its normal speed as his hands fist in the silk of my dress and he hauls me up against his chest, then pins me against the side of the car without hesitation, his hips pressing into mine until I feel how hard he is beneath the fabric of his pants.

  I gasp into his mouth; he swallows the sound with a kiss. As his lips ravage mine I realize, quite abruptly, that beneath all that steadfast patience and meticulous control he shows the world, there lies a beast of a man. The last time we were together, muted by alcohol and uncertainty, I only caught a glimpse of it.

  No glimpse could prepare me for the full extent of his passion. For the wreckage he is about to inflict. A raider, a warrior, an invader. Burning me to the ground. Taking no prisoners.

  His hands move down my thighs to find the hem of my dress, dragging it up to my waist in a fervent tug, and then his fingers are there, at the very core of me, his palm grinding slowly against my underwear, creating friction with the thin lace until I am no more than putty in his hands. I’m already teetering on the edge; a few careful strokes of his fingers and I know I’ll slip over the side of the cliff, free-falling into a chasm of lust.

  For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to make love to me right there, against his car. Throw me down on his driveway and fuck me in the dirt, in full view of anyone out for a midnight stroll, with a ceiling of stars and a bed made of gravel. And the craziest thing is, I’d let him. I’m so far gone, in this instant, he could do anything he wanted to me and I wouldn’t utter a word of objection.

  I’m on the brink, about to explode, when his hands shift away. A helpless sound of protest slips out as his palms slide under my thighs and hoist me up into the air. My legs wrap automatically around his waist as he carries me up the front steps, across the threshold, and straight up the massive staircase to the second floor. He kisses me the whole way to his bedroom, as if he cannot get enough, as if the thought of tearing his lips from mine even for a moment is not an option.

  He throws me on the bed, almost violent in his need, and I’ve barely landed when my dress disappears up over my head, tossed across the room somewhere out of sight. My trembling hands aren’t fast enough for him as they attempt to undo his buttons, so he takes over.

  Patience has officially expired.

 

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