“It’s not. I was practically teasing you.” She glanced at the glass entrance behind them to the Museum of Modern Art, then back at Red. He was almost bursting with excitement. The cold had turned the tip of his nose and his high cheekbones pale pink. His green eyes were bright, like a spark of midsummer in the middle of winter. He was so, so divine. She didn’t know how he could be real. “I know you’re dying to go in. Shall we?”
“Oh, yeah. But first . . .” He brought his hand to her cheek, and she didn’t even mind that his glove was cold and a little wet from the softly falling snow. “Let me see if I can find anything to kiss under all these layers.”
Maybe she’d gone slightly overboard with the scarves—two—and the hats—again, two—but it was cold.
“You want to kiss me now?” she squawked as he nudged aside the wool protecting her skin from the harsh wind. “At this very minute?”
“I want to kiss you every minute of the day,” he murmured, his eyes suddenly serious. “And I want to kiss you in every city on earth.” Then, as her heart overflowed with sickening amounts of love, his lips brushed hers. Quick, light, and still so wonderful that her knees felt the tiniest bit weak.
He pulled back and took his time nudging her scarves in place, even though they wouldn’t be out here for much longer. Biting back a smile, she said, “Now, shall we go in?”
“Are you feeling okay? You’re not tired from the walk, are you?”
“Not yet.” Well, only a little bit.
He was practically vibrating with his eagerness to go inside, but still, he held off to check on her. “Buprenorphine still going strong?”
“I am high as a kite, my love.” She tried not to use her opioid patches all the time, but a trip to New York definitely required them.
“Good,” he said, clearly pleased to know his girlfriend was appropriately drugged. And then, after a long exhale, he grinned. “In we go, then.”
“Full speed ahead. Try not to wet yourself with excitement, you big nerd.”
He shot her a quelling look as they stepped into the museum. “Chloe. Please. This is a classy establishment.”
“Sorry. I can’t be tamed.”
With a wry smile, he said seriously, “I know.”
Acknowledgments
There are so many people I have to thank for this book. I’m about to sound like an overenthusiastic starlet accepting her first Oscar, and I don’t even care, because this was truly a team effort. Some of the people I want to thank probably don’t realize they were on my team—but you were, guys. You shared your loveliness with the world, and I absorbed it like sunlight, which means you’re part of the team. Surprise!
So, where to begin? At the beginning, I suppose. Thank you, Frances Annie Nixon. I wish you had lived long enough to see your name in my book. Sometimes I imagine you recommending this story to your uptight friends, then cackling when they complain about the sex. I miss you.
Mum: thank you for reading to me, even when people told you not to bother. As always, everyone was wrong and you were right. Now you have it in writing. Please don’t abuse this power.
Truly, my tiny troublemaker: you’re the only one who doesn’t judge when I talk to imaginary people. I appreciate you.
Thank you to Sam for picking up whenever I called, answering whatever random, contextless question I asked, and not being offended when I hung up without saying good-bye.
To Dr. Griffiths, who looked me in the eye and said, “First things first: I believe you.” I can’t explain what you did for me that day. Thank you.
KJ Charles, without you and your never-ending well of kindness and support, I probably wouldn’t be in this position—so thank you, thank you, thank you. Courtney Miller-Callihan, my wonderful agent, thank you for believing in me and for handling my constant social awkwardness. Thank you, Nicole Fischer, for turning my sorta-kinda story into an actual, honest-to-god, decent book. And thank you, Ainslie Paton, Therese Beharrie, Em Ali, Charlotte Stein, and all the other authors and friends who ever put my mind to rest.
Orla, Divya, Michal, Maz, and Laila: whenever I’m stressed, you guys appear like tiny sunshines, as if you have some kind of sixth sense. Thank you for making me smile. Thank you to Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Marriott, Mr. Marriott (no relation!), and Mr. Cleveley—and no, I can’t use any of your first names. It’s not allowed.
Thank you to Avon for being all, “Hey, yeah, you can write this book for us.” I almost passed out, but still, much appreciated.
Finally, thank you to everyone who told me that I’d never succeed. You guys make me feel like a triumphant R & B songstress, and the closer I can get to Beyoncé, the better.
Announcement
Look out for Talia Hibbert’s next steamy romantic comedy . . . Chloe’s potion-loving sister Dani will get her own story in summer 2020!
About the Author
Talia Hibbert is a Black British author who lives in a bedroom full of books. Supposedly, there is a world beyond that room,
but she has yet to drum up enough interest to investigate. She writes sexy, diverse romances because she believes that people
of marginalized identities need honest and positive representation. Her interests include beauty, junk food, and unnecessary
sarcasm.
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