Page 68 of Love and Other Chances

“We had a lot of fun times in high school, huh?” I remark.

“We did,” Brooks agrees. His brow furrows. “At least, until I—”

I clap my hand over his mouth to stop him from speaking. “No, sir. Forgiveness. Grace. Moving forward.”

His gaze softens as he takes my hand and kisses it.

It’s dark by the time we leave Bookafe to walk to Brooks’ car. Lazy snow has started falling again, softly drifting through the light of the street lamps. The stillness of the night feels touched by winter magic,by every kind of magic. No one else is out at the moment, giving us the illusion of walking through our own private winter wonderland.

“Hold on,” Brooks says, tugging my hand to a stop. “There’s this snow dancing challenge trending right now. This is the perfect opportunity!”

“The old regency era one?” I ask, knowing exactly what he’s referring to. “Yes, let’s do it!” Brooks props his phone up on a window sill, and we laugh our way through the choreographed moves. We watch the video together, and I’m left breathless noticing the twin expressions on our faces.

Lighthearted joy coupled with intense yearning. The very essence of what I’ve always felt with Brooks. Well,almostalways felt.

“I won’t post this until you give me the go-ahead,” Brooks says, breaking me out of my contemplative stare. I glance up at him, at the tenderness and sincerity in his eyes.

A smile slowly breaks out across my lips. “Houston, we have a go,” I joke with mock seriousness.

Brooks matches my teasing with a stiff salute before pocketing his phone. He takes my hand to twirl me around before pulling me close in his arms. “I’ll post it later tonight. But first, a dance just for me,” he whispers against my ear.

Imaginary music plays around us as we slowly sway on the silent sidewalk. Snowflakes continue to dance with us on our otherwise private dance floor.

After two or twenty minutes—I can’t be sure—I draw back to search Brooks’ eyes. Everything familiar about him hangs there in his gaze. The playfulness that was always matched by his intensity about me, about us. The humor coupled with endless curiosity.

But there’s newness there too. A maturity to his joviality. His unbound optimism has been tempered by an appreciation for what can be lost. His rose-colored lenses tinted with the desire to make positive changes to reality.

I love this Brooks.

The thought sends fire through my veins. As much as I loved Brooks in high school, with the fullness of whatever capacity a teenager has to love—it’s nothing compared to what I’m experiencing now.

I see my thoughts mirrored in Brooks’ eyes, even if neither of us speak any words aloud. And once again, I’m suddenly desperate for him to kiss me. Desperately hoping he’ll close the few inches of space between our lips.

But a swift assessment of the war in his expression informs me that he’s not going to. Given our history, he’s not going to be the one to push in this area.

And I love him even more.

“Brooks, I want you to kiss me.” It’s spoken as a whisper with the weight of a demand.

The spark in his eyes serves as theAre you sure?question that his voice doesn’t ask. I nod my head.Yes, I’m sure.

Brooks draws in a shaky breath, and, in the next second, his head tips down to meet my lips with his.

The kiss is a caress at first—light, gentle, asking. Brooks moves to thread his fingers through my hair, cupping my face against his, and my fingers instinctively clutch at his chest. His kiss is a fire that my soul slowly melts into, rekindling the embers of everything we’ve felt for each other.

I kissed Brooks plenty of times as teenagers. But kissing him now is like reading a book after watching the movie adaptation. It feels familiar in a comforting way, and yet . . . different. Richer. Fuller. There’s a depth—an intricacy of detail—that the movie can never quite capture the way written words do.

And I’m absolutely addicted to this intricacy. I never want to leave the richness of Brooks’ lips against mine. Never ever want to lose this again.

My fingers make their way up to the back of Brooks’ neck as his mouth angles against mine. The embers of us are ablaze again, a wildfire.

Brooks breaks away from the kiss, touching his forehead to mine, my fingers still wrapped behind his neck. “Teegan,” he breathes, brushing a thumb across my cheek. I hadn’t realized there were tears trickling there until he wiped them away.

I see the moisture in his eyes as he whispers.

“It’s you.”

And I know exactly what he means.

---