Page 125 of Between Love and War
Tears fall freely down my cheeks. I nod, to everything and nothing all at once. “I love you too,” I whisper. “So much.”
He smiles and his eyes crinkle. Then, with careful hands and careful steps, he climbs over the barrier.
The jumbotron glows again with the Kiss Cam. The crowd erupts into cheers. Or maybe they’ve already been cheering and I just haven’t been paying attention.
His voice is a whisper now, only for me. “Every cheesy grand gesture ends with a kiss, right?”
I nod, breath caught in my throat.
He takes my glasses off and leans in slowly—so slowly—giving me every chance to change my mind. His eyes stay on mine until the very last second. And then, when our lips finally meet, it feels like coming home.
The crowd erupts around us. I think someone behind us yells my name. Dan whoops. My friends scream. A thousand lights flash.
But all I feel is him.
All I feel is this.
And suddenly, I’m not afraid of the spotlight anymore.
Because he’s in it. And somehow, so am I.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Kate
The oven dings.
Michael pulls out the tray with the seriousness of a man performing an open-heart surgery. He frowns as he sets the tray down and plants both his hands on the counter.
“Why do they look… sad?”
“They’re not sad,” I say, peeking over his shoulder. “They’re just… expressive.”
It’s his third attempt at baking cookies, and he still somehow manages to ruin them.
It’s been four months since the kiss cam incident. Four months since he walked across an entire court, stole the mic, and made the whole arena disappear except for me. And for the first few weeks, I was the topic of every celebrity news. Not ‘curly-haired girl’ anymore, or ‘Michael Lee’s secret girlfriend.’ They actually properly identified me now.
And Heather was right. There were fanfiction, memes, and a lot more embarrassing things (for Michael, not me, thankfully). But it all quickly died down. Like most gossip does.
So now, we’re here in my kitchen. My kitchen in my bakery. That Michael encouraged me to open. The sign isn’t up yet and the rest of the ovens aren’t in. But the space is mine.
The only reason we’re baking tonight is so Michael can give it out to his students tomorrow. He runs ‘Outside the Court,’ a program that helps young athletes figure out who they are beyond the game. Technically (and legally),werun it. I resigned from the preschool, but I’m not done working with kids. Only now, instead of teaching them how to make paper plate masks, I’m teaching them how to manage bake sales and organize charity events.
Michael handles the drills and guest speakers and whatever he thinks counts as a life skill or a potential career. Like painting. Or gardening. Or, in one memorable case, crocheting sweaters for stray animals. Some programs last longer than the others, and we’re thriving.
Also true to his word, he skipped this basketball season. But he’s still playing for the SEA games soon. And I’m traveling with him.
Michael looks at the cookies, still in disbelief.
“So, you’ll fix them?” he asks me.
I grab one while it’s still warm, the chocolate chips molten against my fingers. “I’ll fix them. But maybe someday you’ll actually get my cookie recipe right.”
Michael turns, mock glare in place. “I hope your cookies look like this next time. Just so you’ll know the pain.”
I chuckle. “I hope you know that’s not gonna happen. I’m too good.”
Michael walks closer, and I take a step backward until I hit the wall. His grin tilts, a slow slide into something warmer. “Ihope you keep doing this with me. The baking, the banter, the loving… the kissing…”
