Page 72 of City of Love

He smiles. “No, I don’t think it’s silly. But it shouldn’t matter what I think,chérie. Don’t ever apologize for your dreams.”

I don’t tell him that it sort of might matter what he thinks, because I could so easily see him as my partner in all this. I mean, I’m not ready to propose. I haven’t known this iteration of him for long enough. But he’s the first man I’ve ever been able to picture as part of my future, and that feels significant.

For the next few minutes, we brainstorm, adding things like “learn a new language” and “learn how to knit and crochet and embroidery” to the list. Because yes, maybe my inner self is secretly an eighty-year-old woman.

But come on. I’ve seen some cool stuff done out of yarn and thread.

When I look down at my list after ten minutes, it still looks a bit puny. “I’m just not the kind of person who’s restless formore,” I say, feeling almost exasperated with myself. I get up off the couch, beginning to pace back and forth. “I mean, I want things. And there are things I would change if I could,” I say, thinking specifically of stopping Marcus and of advancing my relationship with Noel. “But not enough to fill a long list. I’m pretty happy with the way things are.”

He tilts his head, watching me pace and eyeing me curiously. “What would you change?”

Crap. I walked right into that one. “Just…you know,” I say, not quite able to meet his eye. I clear my throat. “Stuff. Like Marcus.”

He nods slowly, his eyes intense on mine as he stands up, too. He ambles slowly toward me. “Stuff like Marcus. Anything else?”

I hesitate, but only for a few seconds. Only long enough to get another good look at this incredible man as he comes to a stop in front of me. His lashes are impossibly long; how are they so perfect? And how is it that his lips seem to be made for kissing? They’re full, but not overly so, and they look soft in a way that juxtaposes beautifully with the roughness of his stubble.

And then I find myself speaking. Because even though my instinct is to doubt his interest, I also can’t deny the signals he’s been putting off.

“Yes,” I say. “One more thing.”

He nods again, raising one brow at me—inviting me to elaborate.

I take one step away from him, knowing instinctively that he’ll follow me when I move. And sure enough, he does. He follows every step I take until my back hits the wall, advancing until there’s no more than a foot between us.

I need the sturdiness of the wall behind me; I need the support so my knees don’t give out. But when I’m certain I’m not going to collapse, I reach out and give his shirt a tug, pulling him closer.

He obliges, his gaze never wavering from mine. I can see his body tense, however—hear his breath hitch in his throat before his breathing resumes.

“One more thing,” I say again.

His eyes flit over my face, his expression impossible to read. “And what would that be?” he says.

I’m not sure he realizes how his voice changes when he says this, how it deepens and takes on an utterly seductive quality that pulls me in even more. But it does, and I can’t help but lean further toward him. His body sways toward me, too, and I can see the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing grows less steady.

“I would change our relationship,” I say. I don’t mean for my voice to sound so hoarse, so husky, but it just comes out that way.

Noel’s eyebrows lift with surprise, but the way his gaze darts between my eyes and my lips tells me he knows exactly what I mean.

My heart is racing, and I couldn’t slow it down if I tried. All I can do is wait—wait to see what he does.

And then he moves.

His gaze has given up on my eyes. It’s lingering solely on my mouth now, and slowly, steadily, he brings one hand to my face. He trails the back of his fingers down my cheek, and I’m fairly certain I stop breathing.

But he’s not done. He brings his thumb to hover over my lips, and there’s a mixture of longing and conflict in his eyes, like he’s warring with himself. But my eyes flutter closed a second later at his feather-light touch—his thumb stroking my lower lip, back and forth, in a mesmerizing rhythm.

How can such a delicate touch send so much electricity through my veins?

I give a start when I hear his ragged exhale, much closer to me than he was mere seconds ago. When I open my eyes, I find him only inches from me, and before I can decide otherwise, my fingers have trailed lightly up the sides of his neck and then slid into his hair.

His eyes shutter close as he takes a deep breath. Like he’s steadying himself, reining himself in.

“I’m bad for you, Lydia,” he says, his voice cracking, his eyes still shut. “So, so bad for you.”

His words are at odds with the way he moves closer to me, and when his arms find their way around my waist, I speak.

“Look at me,” I whisper to him.

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