“Hmmm?” he answered, his lips finding mine. This kiss lasted longer than the others, long enough that a tour guide starting her tour at the foot of the George Washington statue looming in front of us cleared her throat until we separated, then shot us a scolding look.
My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t let go of Alex. I placed my hands on his cheeks and leaned my forehead against his. “Let’s get married,” I said softly.
He stilled. “What?”
“Marry me.”
“Are you serious?”
“I don’t want to live with Isaac anymore. I want a house. And a husband. And a baby with blue eyes and another baby with brown eyes and I don’t want to wait anymore.”
He smiled and kissed me again, causing another round of throat-clearing from the tour guide. “Oh, knock it off,” Alex said, and I laughed. He always sounded more Southern when he was annoyed. “We just decided to get married. We’ll kiss if we damn well please.”
And we did. That day. And on our wedding day. On the day I sold my first wedding dress and the day I opened my own shop on King Street. On the day our twins were born. (Both with brown eyes, stupid genetics.) On Isaac’s wedding day. On the day of my very first runway show in New York. On the day Paige and Reese moved back to Charleston full-time and on the day our twins started kindergarten. On the day Chase and Darius finally adopted a gorgeous (blue-eyed, of course) baby girl.
But more importantly, we kissed on all of the awful, hellish days that came in between the shiny, memorable moments.
Even when it was hard.
Even when we hated the world, and sometimes even when we hated each other.
Those were the kisses that mattered most of all.
THE END