Page 24 of Bows & Eros
He rounded the counter, one hand still entangled with mine and the other coming up to brush at the strands of hair framing my face. My eyes were tilted up to meet his, my breath shallow and my skin radiating warmth. When he leaned down to press his lips to mine, it was nothing at all like that first kiss, out in the snow. This was soft, and slow, and deliberate. This was everything a kissshouldbe.
And I fell into it, drifted into it, letting it encompass me the way one sinks into a warm bath. He tasted sweet, a hint of chocolate on his tongue, and when I lifted my arms up to circle around him, he let me pull him closer, let me slide my fingers over the smooth, muscled planes of his shoulders and explore the warm, exposed skin at the back of his neck.
At first, it was like floating, like tumbling into absolutely nothing and finding that instead of falling, you remained suspended in the air. Then, it was a little giddy, and I pulled back, unable to stop myself from a faint laugh that had been caught in my throat, my eyes blinking rapidly as I clung to him, dropping smaller kisses on and around his mouth, to assure him that my laughter was in no way an expression of second thoughts.
I stroked my thumbs over his cheeks, my fingers sinking into his tousled hair, and I pressed our foreheads together, giving in to the urge to laugh and apparently passing it along to Ethan as well, who chuckled with me, stroking the ends of my hair.
I was glad I was seated, otherwise I might have melted directly into the floor in a puddle of goo. It was, without question, the most amazing kiss I'd ever experienced in my life. I studied his mouth for a moment, lavishing in the awe I felt, unwilling to let him go.
"Aren't you worried?" I whispered, tilting my eyes up to meet his, my lashes brushing against his cheeks. "What if I'm under the influence of an arrow?"
"Well," he considered, drawing back just a breath, his eyes sparkling with what I hoped was happiness, "if you are, we had better take advantage of it while it lasts. If you're not, I think that bodes pretty well for the future, don't you?"
"The future," I repeated, in a voice that was barely a whisper. "I hadn't thought about the future."
"There's no need to start now, Noor," he told me, dropping another sweet, slow kiss on my mouth. "There will be plenty of time for that as it happens. Right now, there's only tonight."
I nodded slowly, blinking up at him as the sweet scent of spiced tea wound its way around us, the cold unable to find its way to us through the walls of this little house, locked up tight against the winter chill. "It's been a very long day," I said.
"Tomorrow will be better," he assured me, "and tonight will be quiet." He sounded so completely certain of it that there was no choice but to believe him. In any event, it was hard to imagine anything competing with the things we'd just seen, the events we'd just lived through. He gave me that crooked smile of his, still toying with my hair, his fingertips brushing against my face as he explored it. "Do you want to stay?"
"Stay?" I repeated, a quirk in my lips giving away the blossom of warmth unfurling inside me. "Here? Tonight?"
"To begin with," he agreed. "I can take the couch if you like. I just don't want you to go. I don't want this to be over."
"Oh, it isn't over," I promised him, pulling him back down to my lips. "I can promise you that."
EPILOGUE
Valentine’s Day - One Year Later
I've only fallen in love twice in my life.
At least, that's the story I tell people, if they ask. Lately, the question has come up a lot more often than I ever would have expected it to. Of course at first it was just friends and family, then neighbors, naturally, and the people I met as Ethan and I began to merge our lives together, piece by piece.
Then came the journalists.
Crete, New York was celebrating more than a wedding today, it was celebrating its newfound fame and mystique. This little town had attracted attention last year, when all those people had clamored at the little historic church, eager to tie the knot, and as world record keepers and human-interest writers flocked here to investigate further, a reputation began to form, culminating in headlines that—at long last—put the little town of Crete onto the state map.
Isthis Little Village the Most Romantic Place in America?
Is there Magic in the Air in Crete?
A Visit from Cupid? Valentine Mayhem in a Sleepy Little Town ...
From what I understood,at least one book was being written, and every day more tourists arrived, curious and perhaps more than a little bit hopeful that they would win a taste of the magic that had taken hold here a year ago, on a snowy day in February.
Pastor Dan had spent months preparing for today, counseling the hopeful couples from his cozy little office in the rear of the parish, where all of the water stains had been purged from memory by a generous donation that had given the church a big leg up in its renovation efforts—and a new carpet.
Services had been fuller since that day. The community had been startled awake in more ways than one when that sprinkler system had gone off, or at least that was what I always believed. Today, the pews were packed to capacity, with curious visitors and late-comer locals happy to stand along the stone walls to watch the vow renewals that were about to begin.
Ethan had asked me, of course, if I wanted to get married today, and I had put a lot of consideration into it, but after talking it over with both my husband-to-be and Aaron, we had decided we'd like something a little quieter, a little more private, and perhaps especially prepared for any unexpected guests who might bring with them a particular flavor of the unexpected and impossible.
Besides, I had wanted to enjoy today for the triumph it was. I had wanted to stand in my beloved church and watch it get the ceremony and admiration it had so long deserved, while dozens of couples clasped hands beneath a handmade display of colorful little paper airplanes, each lovingly folded and tied to the altar with a length of matching string. Many of them had little messages written in the folds, or just the names of the happy couples. Their memories of that day might have become hazy, but the bonds that had sprung from the chaos had remained strong.
At my right was Ethan Weaver, one arm wound affectionately around my waist and the other resting on his son's shoulder, both as a show of love and a sensible precaution. Both of the Weaver men had their hair combed today, and both looked truly dashing in their new suits, correctly fitted and comprised of matching pieces thanks to the loving intervention of yours truly.
My other hand, sparkling with the engagement ring he had given me some months ago, was being clasped by my mother, who at long last, had finally made the drive up to Crete with an open mind and a trunk full of artisanal teas. My mother, for the first and only time in her esteemed life, admitted as she saw the wonder around her, that she had been wrong.
