Page 86 of The No Pressure Pact
My heart stops.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up, like she’s steadying herself. “I think I knew it that first night. The rooftop, remember? When Elle introduced us and you said something about standing by the olive tree. I don’t even know what it was exactly, but…” She exhales, shaky. “I felt it. And I’m so glad you took me up on the no-pressure pact silliness. I don’t think I would’ve let myself get here without it.”
“Manu—” My voice cracks halfway through her name. I press my forehead to hers, the bread forgotten, the entire world forgotten. “I love you too.”
“And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” she adds. She wraps her hands around my neck and gives me a soft kiss. “I just needed to be sure.”
“Baby—”
“I like this version better,” she cuts me off, eyes glinting like she remembers that night on the rooftop. When I said I hated small talk and she said,Isn’t this technicallysmall talk, and I told her,I like this version better.
“Of me,” she adds softly. “The version I am with you.”
She smiles then, this soft, disbelieving thing that wrecks me completely, and kisses me slow, like we’ve got all the time in the world.
EPILOGUE
MANUELA
Fourteen months later
“Manu, babe,”Connor calls the second he walks into the apartment. The door slams behind him, the sound echoing through the hallway, and I hear the dull thump of his shoes hitting the floor as he kicks them off. His steps move closer, unhurried but with purpose, like he’s already tracking me by sound. “Babe.”
“Nooooooo, go away,” I call back, loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the bathroom fan.
“What are you doing in there?” His voice is curious, not suspicious, and I can feel the smile on his handsome face.
“Nothing! Go away!” I start laughing, because of course the boundaries don’t exist in this relationship. It’s like the moment we set foot in the same space, he wants to be right next to me, breathing my air. I don’t blame him; the feeling is mutual. But can’t a girl pluck her chin hairs in peace?
“Connie,” I say, raising my voice so it carries through the closed door, “I say this with all the love in the world, but get the fuck away from this bathroom.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” His footsteps stop just outside. I can picture him leaning against the doorframe, head tilted, waiting for me to slip.
“Connor,” I say, trying to keep my tone even as I angle the tweezers toward my reflection, “I’m just finishing up with something.”
“You’re just doing your makeup,” he says, like it’s an accusation. “I want to tell you what happened at work today.”
“Connor!” I set the tweezers down with a soft clink and throw my hands up at the mirror. “Let me pluck my chin hairs in peace!”
There’s a pause, then a surprised, almost offended, “What chin hairs? You don’t have any chin hairs.” I hear the shift in his voice—a thread of concern under the teasing.
“Well,” I reply, meeting my own eyes in the mirror, “apparently, once you turn thirty-four, everything goes south.”
“South where?” he shoots back instantly. “To Argentina?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh my god, go away!”
“Okay, fine,” he says, voice drifting like he’s about to retreat but not really. “But you are the prettiest girl ever. I don’t care about your chin hairs.”
I pivot toward the door, eyebrows up. “So you have seen my chin hairs then!”
“I still like you a lot,” he says without hesitation. “Like,a lota lot.”
“Yes, I like you a lot,” I admit, turning back to the mirror, “but not enough to let you witness this monstrosity.”
The door creaks, and suddenly he’s behind me, the mirror catching his reflection as he steps into the small space like he’s been invited. His hands slide around my hips, pulling me back against his warm, solid frame. He’s still chilly from his walk home, the damp edge of November clinging to his clothes.
“This winter seems to be dragging already,” he murmurs, pressing a light kiss to my temple.
