His steps slow, then he stops altogether as he turns to face me. “If you truly want to be my friend and nothing more, I’ll take it and consider myself lucky. But I’m done pretending I’m not in love with you.”

Can a stomach drop and dance all at once? Because mine is. We’ve never said those words. And now . . . “East.”

He scrunches up his face and shakes his head. “I screwed this up twice, and while I regret that the way I handled things hurt you, I can’t regret my choices, because now I have Abi. She might not be my blood, but she’s my . . .” He shifts his gaze skyward, and my heart twists as I watch his eyes fill with tears. “She’s my proudest accomplishment.”

“She’s amazing,” I say. “And so are you, Easton. She’s lucky to have you as a dad.” It’s really just that simple. I love the way he is with her. I love how unequivocally he puts her first. I love . . . him. And now, looking into his eyes while the cool spring breeze whips my hair around my shoulders, I know I’ve loved him forever. Even when my heart was broken and I tried to lock it away to protect it, I never stopped loving him.

He tilts my chin up and studies my face. “I’ve never felt like I was in a position where I could choose you both, so I made myself stay away. I kept my distance until I could have another chance with you that might actually last. Something solid enough to weather the worst storm. I want that chance, Shayleigh.”

I want all of that, but I can’t deny this piece of me that hesitates. This cautious bit of my soul that’s sending up a warning signal that we’ve been here before. I’ve believed in the improbable and was crushed. Twice. “Why do you want me, Easton?” It’s only once the question passes my lips that I realize it’s not the first time I’ve asked. I asked him when we were in Paris.

“Because of who you are. Because we’re good together.”

“But why?”

He grimaces then shakes his head. “I’m not good with the romantic words.”

I try not to crumble. I don’t want it to matter, but he was doing so well, and I asked and ruined it. “I think you’re better than you believe you are.”

“You’re the writer.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Do you think I could make the past up to you? Do you think you could love me too?”