Candles flicker on either side of the aisle, leading my way. Arlo extends his hand to me as I approach. I take it, stepping to his side where he wraps my hand around his elbow. My gaze veers toward my brother then slides to the man seated beside him.
My heart constricts as Archer sits stock-still in a navy-blue suit, staring. Right. At. Me.
I’m about swallow my tongue, confusion and elation crashing into me in equal parts. I want to ask him what he’s doing here, where he’s been, why he hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts . . . But now is most definitely not the time to be thinking about my love life.
Kins walks down the aisle, and I don’t even notice.
The entire ceremony passes without me catching a word of it.
Archer is all I see.
Archer is my Atticus.
And I need to tell him that. No, I need to show him.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
The second she stepped into my line of sight, the weight that had been getting heavier by the day lifted from my chest. My pulse thunders in my ears as her gaze meets mine, and she holds it for the entirety of the ceremony.
So many unspoken words pass between us.
I love you.
I miss you.
I want you.
I need you.
Just fucking love me, please . . .
A loud round of enthusiastic applause draws my attention, my eyes flicking to the newlyweds as Atticus dips Kinsley and lays one hell of a kiss on her. When my gaze finds Lennon again, she’s staring at her friend, a single tear sliding over her cheek.
My heart squeezes.
I want that with Len. I want to claim her in front of all our friends and family. The whole goddamn world be damned.
Thank God for Bates being a pushy bastard. Lennon is mine. And I’m done being an oversensitive asshole. If she needs more time, so be it. I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as I have to as long as it means she’s mine.
Immediately after the ceremony, we are dragged off for photos with the setting sun as the backdrop. I try to keep my mind in the moment, on the present, but it keeps drifting back to Archer.
What is he doing here?
“Lenny, I’m beginning to think I’ve lost my touch,” Arlo says, clapping his hands in front of my face.
I jerk, blinking a few times until he comes into focus. “What?”
He smirks. “I’ve been trying to make you smile for the last ten minutes. You’re off in freakin’ la-la land, babe. What’s up?”
“Oh, my bad, kid. Just a lot on my mind.”
Arlo arches a brow and crosses his arms over his ridiculously-broad-for-a-seventeen-year-old chest. “You haven’t been your snarky self lately. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s man troubles, isn’t it? Hit me with it—this is my jam. Just ask the old man. I’d like to think I’m primarily responsible for him and Kins getting freaky.” As if realizing what he just said, he cringes. “Ugh, fuck. That’s gross. But you know what I mean. Let me have it.”
With a snort, I pat his shoulder. “Kid, you’d have to be a fucking miracle worker to solve my relationship woes.”
“Try me,” he says, a confident gleam in his eyes.
I shrug. What the hell. It couldn’t hurt. “Okay, I’ve worked my ass off my whole life, striving to achieve one goal: being the best agent in the city. It required certain sacrifices that I had no problem making. But now. . .” I swallow. “Now things have changed. My goals have shifted somewhat.”
Arlo nods, seemingly following along so far.
Licking my lips, I glance at Kins as Atticus slides one hand around her neck, into her hair, tipping her head back and dropping his lips to hers in a possessive, protective, passionate kiss. It’s beautiful and everything I thought I’d never want or need. How wrong I was . . .
“And . . .” Arlo prompts.
I return my gaze to him, a sad smile tipping my lips. “I messed it up—in a big way. And I don’t know if I can fix it.”
His brows furrow, and he tilts his head. “Seriously? That’s it?”
I nod. “Uh, yeah.”
“Babe, if you love this dude, and he’s part of your ‘new goal,’” he says with air quotes, “then why aren’t you working your ass off for him the same way you did to become the kick-ass agent you are?”
It’s my turn to frown. “I tried,” I murmur.
He steps to my side, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Lenny, you didn’t try. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’re Lennon Handler—ball-busting queen of the sports world. You want something, you make it happen. This is no different.”
I twist my neck, looking up into his serious gaze.
Then, the little shit smirks. “So, drop the bullshit excuses. ‘Cause that’s what they are—bullshit,” he says then plants a kiss on the top of my head. “And go get your man.”
Freaking hell. The kid is right. A genuine smile curves my lips. The kid is fucking right. I have never let anyone stand in the way of something I want. Yet, here I am, standing in my own damn way.
“Thanks, kid,” I say, pushing onto my tiptoes. I press a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’re the shit.”
He waggles his brows. “Don’t I know it.”
“And modest, too,” I joke, hip-checking him.
We laugh as we’re called to pose for a couple more group photos before walking over to the large white tent in the middle of the field where the reception is being held.
As soon as I step through the opening to the tent, I scan the small crowd in search of my man. My eyes are drawn to the bar where they meet with his penetrating stare. An electrical current sweeps through me, and just like two magnets, we’re drawn toward each other.
We stop in the middle of the empty dance floor, a mere foot of space separating us. “You came,” I murmur, unsure of what else to say.
He swallows then nods. “I told you I would.”
The gravelly tone of his voice after two weeks without it is a balm to my soul. It gives me the strength to extend my hand to him and ask, “Can we talk?”
His hand engulfs mine, then he steps into me. Dipping his head, he murmurs, “Please,” his breath feathering over my lips with the word.
I want to bask in his nearness, relish the warmth of his body so close to mine. And without a second thought, I do. I brush my lips over his in a soft, barely there kiss. Wrapping my arms around his middle, I whisper, “I’ll do better. I promise. I love you.”
His shoulders sag, his eyes close, and his forehead rolls against mine as his hands rise to cup either side of my face. “No, baby, I’m sorry. So. Fucking. Sorry. Let me make it up to you.”
My mouth curls into a grin. “You already have. You’re here, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
Hope blooms inside of me—hope and love and joy and gratitude. All the mushy emotions I normally avoid. My eyes well, but this time, I don’t fight the slow trickle of warm tears that coast down my cheeks. They’re happy tears, and I need to let Archer see and feel them with me.
His hands glide to my jaw, over my shoulders, and down my sides until he’s holding my waist in his big palms as he kisses away my tears. “Don’t cry, spitfire,” he murmurs against my skin. “I’ve got you, and I’ll never walk away again.”