“I could never forget it.”
“You teased me for my Jane Austen collection,” he accuses.
“I didn’t tease, I simply pointed it out.”
“Well, that was the moment I knew you were not only smart and funny and beautiful and caring,” he says, his hands coming up to trace the line of my jaw and then tangle into my hair, “you were my match in every way. I love you, Brooklyn.”
“I love you so much, Prescott.”
We kiss, then I break out of the embrace, turning and walking toward the door. Confused, he calls after me, “Where are you going?”
I look over my shoulder, hooking a finger at him to follow me. “Upstairs. Bring your library card—I’ve got something for you to check out.”