His mouth twists like there’s a bad taste on his tongue. “Ignore what they say, and live your life the way you need to.”

I release a heavy sigh. “That’s not easy to do.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s a weariness in his expression that implies he really does understand. “I believe you, though. That’s something, right?”

“Yes,” I whisper. That is something. Right now, it feels like everything.

SEVENTEEN

Quan

IT’S KIND OF CORNY, BUT THE PALACE OF FINE ARTS IS ONE OF my favorite places in the city. I love the columns and the lights and the water. It’s romantic. Lots of people do their weddings here, and yeah, I like weddings. Sometimes I get teary when people say their vows—if they’re good vows or they’re said with feeling. It gets me every time when old dads cry, maybe because I wish my dad cared about me that way.

“This place doesn’t look real,” Anna says as she looks around with wonder, reverently touching her fingertips to the reddish stone on one of the columns while we walk through the gardens.

“It gets better this way,” I say, and lead her down the colonnade to the rotunda.

Inside, she tilts her head back and gazes at the intricate geometric patterns on the ceiling. Light reflects off the surface of the water outside, and waves ripple over the hexagonal shapes overhead. It’s a work of architectural genius, but what captivates me is Anna’s profile, the way her lips are parted ever so slightly, how much I like seeing her in my jacket.

“I’ve always wanted to kiss a girl in the middle of this room,” I confess, feeling determined and a little bit queasy at what I’m planning to do.

She grins at me, and light dances in her eyes. “I bet you’ve taken lots of girls here.”

“I have.” I stride to the exact center of the echoing space.

“Do you kiss them all right there?” she asks, hanging close to the walls, away from me.

“Nah,” I say.

“Why?”

“It never felt right before.”

She tries to smile, but her lips won’t quite cooperate. “Maybe with the right person.”

I hold my hand out toward her, inviting her to join me here in the center. “The view is best right here. It’s perfectly symmetrical.” I have a feeling she loves symmetry like cats love catnip.

She takes a few steps toward me but stops out of my reach. Looking up at the ceiling, she smiles and says, “You’re right. The view is better here. I love this.”

“You’re not in the middle, Anna.”

She bites her lip and takes one more step toward me.

I capture one of her hands and gently pull her to the middle with me. “You don’t want to stand next to me?”

She meets my eyes for the barest fraction of a second before glancing away. “I don’t want you to feel pressured to … do things with me.”

“I don’t.”

A smile flashes on her mouth as she nods. “Okay, good.”

Courage, I tell myself. She sent me a heart emoji. I can do this. Steeling myself, I tuck a tendril of her hair behind her ear. When her cheek twitches, I ask, “Do you mind when I do that?”

She starts to shake her head, but stops. “I like the sentiment.”

“But?” I ask.

With her gaze trained up at the ceiling, she adds, “But … it bothers me when people touch my hair.”

I store that information away and run the backs of my fingers along her cheek and cup her jaw in my hand, bringing her attention back to me. “What about when I touch you like this?”

She takes a shaky breath and exhales. “It’s okay.”

“Okay good, or okay bad?”

Her lips curve. “Okay good.”

“Good to know.” I lean down, aching to press my mouth to hers, but I only allow my nose to graze against the bridge of hers, a caress that makes her eyes drift shut.

I brush my lips over hers, and when she moves as if to prolong contact, my control snaps and I take her mouth the way I’ve been craving to. She makes a tiny sound in her throat, and I’m lost. I kiss her like I’m drowning.

I wanted to memorize everything about this moment, kissing her in this place, but her mouth is all I can think about. Her intoxicating softness, her taste, the way she seems to draw me deeper. I can’t get enough. I can’t stop.

She’s the one who pulls away, her hands gripping my shoulders tightly. “Can we get arrested for lewd kissing in public?”

A gruff laugh comes out of me. “I don’t think so? And you think this is lewd? You haven’t seen anything yet.” I slide my palms down her back, grip her hips, and arch against her, so she can feel what she does to me.

She gasps and hides her face against my neck, saying my name like it’s a protest, and I chuckle.

This is the right time, so I say it.

“I really like you, Anna.”

“I like you, too,” she says, and there’s a weight to her words that tells me she means it.

“I don’t want this to be our last night together,” I confess. “I want to keep seeing you after this. Instead of trying to have a one-night stand … why don’t we just date and see where things go?” I ask, having difficulty hearing my voice over the loud crashing of my heart.

She draws in a sharp breath and steps away from me. “Does that mean you want to be my boyfriend?”

“We don’t need to put labels on things if it makes you uncomfortable.” But I’m not sure if I’m saying that for me or for her. If we’re in a committed relationship, I have to be up front with her about things, and that isn’t easy, even though she’s been open with me about her own issues. I want to be her rock, someone she’s not afraid to depend on. I need her to see me as whole.

“My boyfriend and I …” She frowns and brushes the hair away from her face with an impatient swipe of her hand. “He wanted us to be in an open relationship. I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t know that we would—that you would—that I—” She gives up trying to explain.

It takes me a moment to understand what she’s saying, but then a weird mixture of feelings boils inside me. I was wrong. She wasn’t trying to get over someone. She just wanted to try something new. Because her shitty boyfriend was. It stings that she didn’t tell me, but I get why she didn’t. We were never supposed to be anything.

“Are you angry?” she asks.

Hell if I know the answer to that, so I ask the only question that really matters right now: “Do you still want to be with him?”

She worries her bottom lip and then shakes her head slowly but decisively. “I don’t.”

My heart jumps. My hands ache to touch her, but I keep them down at my sides. “Do you want—”

“I want to be with you,” she says, holding my gaze in a way she rarely has before.

I take a step toward her. “How long have you guys been … doing this?”

“Basically since you and I met. It’s surprisingly easy to be apart,” she says. “For the record, there’s only been you.”