Page 27 of Red, White, and You

"I was going to." He steps inside, setting flowers on every surface he can find. “But Joe gave me a pep talk. Something about not quitting when the big game’s on the line.”

I blink. "You’re comparing me to a football game?"

“No. But if you were a football game, you’d be the Super Bowl.” He growls with frustration. “This isn’t coming out right.”

I’d be the Super Bowl.It’s ridiculous, but the sentiment is sweet, and it hits me right in the heart.

"Gigi, I screwed up,” he continues. “I came here with the wrong motives. I kept a secret. I’ll never do that again, I swear.”

"Phoenix—"

"Please, let me finish." He steps closer, careful but determined. "I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what I’ll do now that football’s over, or where I’ll live, or how any of it’s supposed to work. I don’t know what the future holds.”

My chest tightens.

"But I do know one thing—I want you in it. In every next chapter. You’re the key to my happiness.”

I’m crying now. Big, messy, mascara-smearing tears. And I don’t even care.

"I called your mom," he says. "Told her I’m not taking the bonus. That I’m not interested in Hart Health, or any arrangement that involves convincing you to be someone you’re not."

"You didn’t have to do that."

"I did. Because this—us—was never supposed to be about a paycheck. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with a woman who bakes her feelings into cake. And I couldn’t leave without telling her."

He looks at me, vulnerable and open, like he’s handing me his whole heart and praying I don’t drop it.

I wipe my eyes with the hem of my apron.

"I made you a cake," I blurt, because apparently I’ve lost control of my mouth.

His brows lift. "You made me a cake?"

I gesture toward the creation behind me. "Lemon-Raspberry & Regrets. It says I’m sorry for not listening. For assuming the worst. For being scared."

He walks around the glass case of desserts, joining me behind the counter. He looks at the cake. Then at me. Then back at the cake.

"Lemon-Raspberry & Regrets," he repeats.

For a second, he just looks at me.

Then he bursts out laughing.

Full-on, head-tipped-back, joy-in-his-boneslaughing. It bubbles out of him and fills the room, and suddenly I’m laughing too, the way people do when they’ve been holding in too much for too long.

“We’re both idiots,” he says.

I glance around the flower-covered bakery. "That’s a lot of flowers."

“I wanted to make sure you got the message.”

"What message is that?"

He steps closer, brushing a curl behind my ear.

“That I love you, Georgina Hart. I love that you stand your ground, bake your heart out, and show up for people when it counts. You’re it for me.”

I don’t hesitate this time.

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