He laughs. “I’ve loved you my whole life, Claire, so no, not t . . . t-oo fast at all.”

I touch the wall to remind myself to stand, smile, and hope he can’t tell how his words disarm me.

“Can I come in?” Our eyes lock and I’m transported back in time to our first kiss, feel my gaze lower to his lips, and my thoughts quickly turn to the memory of his skin against mine and—

“Claire?”

“Huh?”

He’s smiling. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yes, um, of course.” I cringe at the way I stumble over my words like an adolescent girl.

Tate makes himself comfortable on the couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him, hands on the back of his head, grinning. “I love you,” he says.

I hold up the card. “That’s three times, now. Are you going for a record?”

He chuckles. “I figure if I keep saying it that one day you’ll just have to accept it.”

My cheek tingles where he kissed me, and I have to sit on my hand to keep from touching it. It makes me wonder whether I feel like this every time I see him.

He’s looking at me, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You do.”

“What?”

“You’re w . . . w-ondering if you act like this every time I come around.” My mouth drops open and he holds his hand up. “No, I’m not psychic, it’s something you’ve asked before. And just so you know”—he leans forward, and the way he fills the space between us turns my stomach into knots—“I love it. What man wouldn’t w . . .w-ant constant adoration from the woman he loves?” He winks, leans back, and crosses his arms, looking every bit a Cheshire cat.

He hasn’t changed. It’s the Tate I remember, all right, still with that gleam in his eyes, the one who says, Let’s skip school and smoke a joint. The one who is trouble and fun and kind and caring all at the same time. The one who held my hand when Mom left. Except he’s different now—grown up, I suppose. Just like me. I drop my gaze, see the card in my hand. He’s a father and I’m Claire, the woman with no memory. How can I be anything more than that to him?

He reaches out and stops my writing hand. “Cross that out.”

“What?”

“All of it. You keep telling yourself that you don’t deserve to be happy w . . . w-ith me.”