But I couldn’t wait. I still can’t. The clock is ticking toward midnight, and I’m overcome with a deep sense of urgency. If I let her start the new year without me, I’m afraid I’ll end it without her. Afraid my chance will be gone.
I think about where we were a year ago. I remember her at my sister’s party—standing in the kitchen, dressed in that hot little black dress and sexy red heels, ditched by whatever jackass Selene set her up with. I almost kissed her, right then. I was probably drunk, and it would have been a stupid thing to do. I was dating someone else at the time. I knew she’d been counting on starting her year off right. We’d talked the day before about resolutions and making changes. In the back of my mind, the thought bloomed: What if this was our year? What if next New Year’s Eve I was the one kissing her?
I almost had it. And now my chance is ticking away with every minute.
That’s when it hits me.
Big Ben. She wanted to watch it hit midnight.
I rush out of the restaurant to the nearest tube station. Fuck, how do I get there? I look at the map, figuring out the route, and board the right train.
I check the time. Eleven forty-two. Shit. How long is this going to take?
The train stops. I dash out and run up to the street.
Half of fucking London is here. The crowd is huge, the cold obviously not keeping people from coming out to celebrate. I’m inundated by crazy hats, waving glow sticks, necklaces with blinking lights. I push my way into the mass, keeping the huge clock in my sights.
I’m never going to find her in this.
I make my way closer to Westminster, but the crowd gets thicker. I know she’s out here somewhere. She has to be. It’s why she came. I glance up at the clock. Five minutes.
My phone vibrates, but it’s a text from Selene. Any luck?
I type a quick no and keep looking.
My breath comes out in a cloud in the cold air. I look into the faces of everyone I pass, desperate.
Fuck, Kylie, I’m here. I came all this way. Where are you?
Eleven fifty-six.
People are packed around me. She isn’t here. She hates big crowds. She wouldn’t stand here; she’d be where she can see without suffocating. I turn around and start pushing my way back toward the edge of the crowd. I check my phone again.
Eleven fifty-seven.
The energy around me rises, people cheering, blowing noisemakers, holding up cell phones to take pictures. Some drunk asshole stumbles into me, and I catch him, pushing him back to his feet while he laughs. I get to where the crowd thins out and stop, looking around.
Eleven fifty-eight.
I see her before she sees me. My chest tightens; the breath rushes from my lungs. God, she’s beautiful. She’s bundled up in a cream-colored hat and a black coat with a thick collar. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and she’s staring at the clock, blowing into her hands to warm them.
My heart tries to break free from my ribs. I’m overcome—desperate to hold her again, terrified she won’t forgive me. I force myself to walk toward her, focusing on each step.
Her face turns and her eyes widen. Her lips part in surprise.
She sees me.
I stare at the man walking toward me, my heart suddenly racing. It can’t be Braxton. I’m in London. He doesn’t know where I am. And even if he found out, he’s in Seattle. He’s not here.
Except he is.
He’s as gorgeous as ever, goddamn him. He’s wearing a dark wool coat and scarf, and he pulls off a pair of black leather gloves, tucking them in his pocket. A hat covers his hair, but it only emphasizes his rugged jaw and smoldering brown eyes.
My belly flip-flops and my heart beats too fast. I’m completely frozen, staring in disbelief. I can’t decide if I want to collapse into his arms and cry, or slap him for showing up here and ruining my New Year’s Eve.
I want to be angry. I want to turn my back and tell him I meant it when I said I never wanted to see him again. But he moves closer, and his expression unmakes me. A groove forms between his eyes and the lines of his jaw stand out. He looks so … wounded. His eyes move over me like he never expected to see me again.
Maybe he didn’t.
The crowd starts to count down.
Ten … nine …
He stands right in front of me, his eyes full of so much pain. Mine fill with tears, and I bite my lip to keep them from spilling over.
Eight … seven …
He doesn’t look away, holding my gaze with his. I’m transfixed. His presence is mesmerizing.
Six … five …
I tilt my face up as he moves in closer.
Four … three …
He leans down. I can see how hard he’s breathing.
Two …
His hand slips into my open coat, around my waist, and he draws me close.
One.