Page 79 of Ravaged
Hands shoot into the air, but a woman in a white blouse and dark-blue pants beats everyone else to the punch. “Jordan, Kyle Rappaport with theDenver Oracle. Can you comment on your position regarding the graphic novel series Ravaged Lands?”
I blink, certain I didn’t hear that question right.
“Uh, excuse me?”
“Your position regarding the Ravaged Lands graphic novels?”
I frown, more than a little confused. Like a fuckton confused. Maybe someone on the Ball Arena staff had let it slip about me arranging the mini Comic-Con exhibition here?
“I love the series.”
Before another reporter can ask a question, this Kyle is back at it. Or, rather, back at me. “And what about graphic novelists? What is your position on graphic novelists?”
My heart starts to pound in my chest, my mouth going dry. My gaze sweeps the press room, but for a moment, all I see is a blur of faces. Focusing back on the reporter, I study her face, but her expectant expression gives nothing away. And I don’t recognize her.
“Jordan? Graphic novelists?”
A murmur ripples through the room, as if they, too, realize this shit is unusual. Because itis.
“I can’t speak for all graphic novelists, since I only know one,” I slowly say, leaning into the microphone. “But my position on that one? She’s pretty damn amazing.”
I scan the room one more time, and how can these people not catch my pulse magnified times a thousand in all these damn microphones? Hell, I can barely hear my own voice. Shit. Leaning back in my chair, I drop my hands onto my thighs. My suddenly sweaty hands.
“And said graphic novelist? If she’d made a mistake, jumped to a wrong conclusion, and wanted your forgiveness, what would you have to say on that?”
The room bursts into loud chatter, and cameras click as a wild, crazy joy sings through me. I clear my throat of the hope crowding into it. Straightening and flexing my fingers on my thighs, I desperately peruse the room again. Nothing. Nothing. She’s not here. She’s not ... a slight movement and—there.
There she is.
Miriam steps out of the exit’s shadow, and it’s like a beacon shines down on her. Logically, I acknowledge it’s just the track lighting, but no, she’s fucking glowing. Another small movement, and Cyrus moves into my line of sight, wearing a small smile.
Shifting my attention back to her, I meet her gaze and don’t look away.
“I would have to say that she doesn’t have to ask for my forgiveness. That it’s hers. Anything I have is hers. Me included.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Kyle asks—grinning.
The room erupts in reporters yelling my name and shouting questions about graphic novelists and whether I care to expound on my answer and who “she” is. But I’m not paying attention to any of them. Only Miriam has all my attention.
It’s always been only Miriam.
Standing, I push my chair back, then skirt the table and my teammates. In seconds, I’m off the podium, not even caring that I’ll be paying a hefty fine for disrupting this press conference. All that matters is the woman at the back of the room and getting my arms around her.
The reporters part like the Red Sea, still yelling their questions. Flashes go off, and as I reach Miriam and swing her up in my arms, holding her tight, the world ... stills. Quiets. I close my eyes, inhale her spicy-cinnamon-and-vanilla scent, savor the press of her body to mine, feel the beat of her heart against my chest ...
God.I bury my face in her neck. I didn’t know if I would be here again. Didn’t know if I would touch her again.
“Sweetheart.” It’s all I can get out as I set her on her feet, cup her face, and tip her head back. Sweeping my thumbs over her cheekbones, the corners of her mouth, I shake my head and loose an admittedly shaky laugh. “What’re you doing here? Well, besides giving me the best rom-com grand-gesture moment created?”
She grins, circling her hands around my wrists. “Just like Cyrus’s friend asked, I’m here to ask your forgiveness.”
“Miriam, you don’t need—”
She releases one of my wrists to press a finger to my lips, shushing me. “Yes, I do. Jordan, I have prided myself on living for myself and not caring what other people thought. But the truth is I’ve been so tangledup in my past I’ve allowed it to color my present and almost wreck my future. From my parents to Robert, I’ve never let go. And by holding so tight to what happened then, I made no room for you or a possibility of you. Of us. Worse, I punished you for another person’s sins when I knew you weren’t him. You, Jordan, are nothing like him. You’re ... everything. My Narnia. All this time you’ve seen me. When my own family didn’t, you did. And I’m so sorry for wearing blinders when it came to you. For not seeing your heart. I’m sorry for assigning you blame that wasn’t yours. I’m sorry for not trusting you with my heart when there’s no place, hands, it’s safer in. Mostly, I’m sorry it took me so damn long to say I love you.”
She slides her hands up my chest, then wraps her arms around my neck and rises on her toes. I meet her halfway.
“I love you so much, Jordan Ransom,” she whispers against my lips. “And thanks to you, I believe in the fairy tale. Youarethe fairy tale. You’re mine.”
