It’s her.
My Gigi.
She’s a little messy—dress wrinkled, hair pulled into a crooked ponytail, mascara smudged beneath her eyes—but she’s still beautiful.
Maybe even more beautiful.
Because I know she showed up messy and in a rush for me. So we could share this victory—or defeat—together.
But I honestly don’t care anymore which it is. All I want is her.
It seems she feels the same. The moment our eyes connect, she starts across the garden at a jog.
I jolt away from my station but stop myself before I go more than a few steps. I don’t want to steal Mr. Skips’s limelight.
The older man’s clever eyes bounce between the two of us, and his lips stretch into a sly little smile. “Just a moment, sweet-lovers of all ages. There’s a very close call here for first and second place. I’ll need to confer with the judges for a moment.” He trundles over to the judge’s table, giving me all the opportunity I need.
I close the distance to Gigi as she rushes to me, throwing her arms around my neck and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I need to tell you something important,” she says, her words spilling out at Mach speed. “I love you. And I’d still love you if you didn’t have a library, or if you lived in a tiny room in the back of Tea and Empathy and your clothes always smelled like scones. I’d love you if you didn’t wear suits. I’d love you if you didn’t drink fifty-year-old whiskey or have the world’s greatest board game collection. Because the way I feel for you has nothing to do with any of that.”
She clasps my face, stroking my jaw as she delivers the very best love speech. Better, even, than the one on the Ferris wheel. That was fantastic, but this is one for the ages.
“I love everything about you. Your witty brain and your gorgeous face and your big heart, and the way you keep things in perspective, even when it’s hard,” she says before adding with a soft smile, “And I love that you insist you aren’t running late even when you are. And that you refuse to stress even when you probably should. And that you look down your nose at bankers, even though you used to be one, and that you are very snotty about socks.”
I hug her closer. “My feet demand a certain standard of heel cushioning and reinforcement.”
“I know they do,” she says. “And I love that you insist on getting what you need, even when it means leaving for your morning run when I’d rather you stay in bed and snuggle.” She sighs and her brows pinch together. “I just…wanted you to know. That I love you like that. And that I’m kind of hoping you might love me the same way.”
Before I can insist that I adore every fucking thing about her from her poise, loyalty, intelligence, and killer sex-appeal to the way she leaves empty coffee cups all over the house and constantly misplaces her purse, Mr. Skips returns to the microphone. “All right, we’re all sorted! In second place is West Byron.”
I freeze, then blink.
Well…
Good.
If things pan out the way I think they have, this is actually quite good.
As if reading my mind, a wide-eyed Gigi lifts her crossed fingers between us.
“And the winner, for her absolutely incredible, sinfully delicious chocolate indulgence molten cake, is”—Mr. Skips takes a dramatic beat—“Willow Thompson.”
“Oh, my.” Gigi claps her hand over her mouth, clearly thrilled. Then as she joins in the applause echoing through the garden, she glances up at me. “You’re not upset, are you?”
I shake my head. “Couldn’t be less upset, in fact. You?”
She beams. “No. Not a bit. She totally deserves this. One hundred percent.”
As soon as the clapping and cheering dies down a little, Gigi takes my hand and pulls me over to Willow, throwing her arms around the dog-loving cupcake baker. “I’m so happy for you! You’re going to be an incredible Mrs. Sweets.”
“Thank you. I can’t quite believe it yet,” Willow says in an awed voice. “I never expected I might actually win.”
Gigi smiles. “I did. You’re an incredible baker. And your cupcakes are the best in the city. We should celebrate! You want to get lunch tomorrow?”
“I would love to,” says the once shy, still shy, but now bolder woman.
When a beaming older couple—Willow’s parents I’m guessing—whisk her away for pictures with Mr. Skips, I guide Gigi to a quiet corner of the garden, gather her into my arms, and return all my attention to her. “What’s come over you, woman? Where’s my ruthless competitor? My Scrabble destroyer?” I ask with a laugh.
She shrugs coquettishly then leans closer, whispering just for me. “Oh, she’s here. She’s definitely here.” Her tone turns serious, a touch emotional. “And I was really upset to be disqualified, but I didn’t want to let that keep me from being present for the people I care about. Like Willow. And you. Especially you. You’re so...good, West. Honestly, sometimes I think I don’t deserve you.”