When he’s fully inside of me, we breathe in sync, a warm relief between us, but at the first move of our bodies the bed protests again, this time a quiet thunk against the wall it’s pushed up against, and both of us still, our eyes locked. This time, we’re not stopping; I can tell by the way Reid looks at me, hot and focused and determined. His arm tightens low around my back, and he shifts us forward so his back isn’t against the bed.

And with that move, everything is different, the first time we’ve ever had sex this way—no leverage at his back or mine, nothing to hold on to but each other. It’s an effort, more so because we’re playing by the rules, staying silent. We go slow—so, so slow—small pulses of his hips up to thrust into me, measured rocking of my hips in his lap to get the friction I need. I don’t know how long it takes, because neither of us is marking the time, keeping track. It feels like floating, like being untethered.

Like writing without letters.

Like counting without numbers.

It feels like love.

And even when it reaches its peak—when I breathe through my slow, shuddering climax against his neck, when he grips me tighter and stiffens through his, when we clutch at each other in the aftermath with some new, shocked awareness between us . . .

Even then, neither of us breaks the rules.

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Lark is speechless.

In the back of the shop, Lark sits with the planner I’ve finished for her open on the table, her eyes tracking over the pages she turns slowly, carefully. I’ve looked at what’s in those pages dozens of times myself over the last few days, so mostly I watch her face as she experiences it—the pastels I’ve chosen, mostly pinks and greens, the occasional rose gold accents. The small, wide-set, lowercase scripts that unfurl across the headers, and the narrow, close-set, all-caps sans serif that marks out the days. The delicate illustrations that dot the corners of some of the pages—a tiny splash of starbursts here, a single flower in a simple bud vase there. All of it is quiet, understated. Sweet and soft but also sturdy and sophisticated.

“This is very . . .” she begins finally, touching her finger to the corner of one page. “This is so . . . me,” she finishes, a note of wonder in her voice.

I smile, relieved. “I’m so glad. That’s what I was going for.”