Chapters (89)
- Dedication
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ONE
- HENRY
- TWO
- EMMA
- THREE
- HENRY
- FOUR
- EMMA
- FIVE
- EMMA
- SIX
- SEVEN
- HENRY
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- HENRY
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- EMMA
- THIRTEEN
- HENRY
- FOURTEEN
- HENRY
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- EMMA
- SEVENTEEN
- HENRY
- EIGHTEEN
- HENRY
- NINETEEN
- HENRY
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- EMMA
- TWENTY-TWO
- EMMA
- TWENTY-THREE
- HENRY
- TWENTY-FOUR
- EMMA
- TWENTY-FIVE
- EMMA
- TWENTY-SIX
- EMMA
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- HENRY
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- EMMA
- TWENTY-NINE
- HENRY
- THIRTY
- HENRY
- THIRTY-ONE
- HENRY
- THIRTY-TWO
- EMMA
- THIRTY-THREE
- HENRY
- THIRTY-FOUR
- EMMA
- THIRTY-FIVE
- EMMA
- THIRTY-SIX
- HENRY
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- EMMA
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- HENRY
- THIRTY-NINE
- HENRY
- FORTY
- EMMA
- FORTY-ONE
- HENRY
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- EMMA
- FORTY-FOUR
- EMMA
- FORTY-FIVE
- HENRY
- EPILOGUE
- ALSO BY CHELSEA CURTO
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The possibility excites me, swirling in my belly with an exhilarating energy that doesn’t want to go away. Not when I can’t stop thinking about him and what a future might look like together.
I barely slept last night, spending the early hours of the morning tossing and turning, sheets tangled around my legs while my emotions flip-flopped from anxious to positively giddy. Thousands of scenarios have run through my head; who am I talking to? What does he look like? Will he actually show up or ghost me, never to be heard from again as he fades away and I’m left picking up the cracked remnants of a man who finally captivated me?
I’ve been stewing since sunrise, and my inability to calm down enough to relax for longer than three seconds is why I’m sitting in Beans and Brews twenty minutes early. I snagged a table in the corner, far away from the entrance, so I can observe everyone who comes inside.
My clammy hands want to grab a coffee to give the jittery appendages something to do while I wait instead of running up and down the length of my denim-clad thighs again and again, palms growing damper by the minute.
I don’t want to be rude and order without JD. Will we sit for a while, laughing over steaming mugs of caffeine and swapping stories? Will he offer to split a pastry, letting me have the last bite?
My foot taps on the floor, going against the beat of the jazz music crooning softly over the speakers, and I pull out my phone, glancing at the messages we shared before sunrise. He was awake earlier than I was, and it thrills me to know he’s waiting for this moment, too, counting down the painstakingly slow seconds.
JD: Good morning. I’m nervous to meet you. But so fucking excited.
JD: I’ll be there at 8 sharp, wearing a purple baseball hat.
JD: Please don’t run when you see me. Let’s give this a chance.
RB: I’m freaking petrified.
RB: I’ll be the one in long overalls and a pink, long-sleeve shirt. Blonde hair.
RB: I’m not running anywhere. I promise.
Every flash of purple and streak of violet has my head spinning and neck craning, wondering if I’ve spotted my mystery man. Grinning stupidly at the smiley face he sent, I’m about to text him again to let him know I’m already inside when a shadow covers my phone.
“Emma?”
I look up at the familiar voice, finding Henry Dawson standing above me wearing… a purple baseball hat on his head?
It’s obstructing the hair I’m so accustomed to seeing him run his hands through, but it is unmistakably a purple ball cap.