Page 119 of The Last Kiss

That look of beautiful solemnity comes over his face. It’s my favourite look, dark and brooding, all things that make my heart flutter. Stupid heart. Literally.

“Ma petite Julianna, I never promised.” He leans a little closer, breath brushing my skin, making me ache for days full of sunshine, laughter, and tangled cotton sheets.

My heart races again, pounding loud in my ears. I clutch at my chest, touch weak, barely holding myself together. That beautiful solemnity darkens into heartbreak. It splinters what’s left of me straight in two.

“Henri, please.” I gasp his name, remembering another broken rule between us.

No names.

No strings.

Yet here we sit. Rather, I lie; he stands, looking like a man on fire.

Rules are there for a reason. I must remember that for my next life.

Oh God. My breath comes even faster.

The next life… it’s almost here and I still don’t know if I even believe. How can I go not knowing?

Stop everything. I want a do over.

This can’t be it.

Strong fingers entwine with mine. “Ma petite fleur, look at me.”

I do, unwillingly unable to keep my eyes from his. The shining pools staring back at me almost make me lose my mind. “I’ll never leave. Be damned any promise I ever made.”

A smile ghosts my mouth. “Cheater.”

He shrugs, pure Gaelic charm. “Hey, I never said I wasn’t.” The brightening of his face calms my heart, exhaustion tugs me down.

I don’t want to close my eyes.

What if I close them and nothing happens ever again?

What if that’s it? Forever and ever.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispers.

Scared.

“I am,” I whisper back.

Turning my face with gentle fingers, he gently pushes a kiss on my lips. Even at the end of my days it’s still the most beautiful taste. Warm and succinct, just the perfect pressure, the perfect time, not too long, not too short.

“I’m so glad I got to kiss you.”

“Well…” His lips curve. “That’s not all we’ve done.”

“Lay with me.” My fingers feebly tap the bed.

“You know where that ends.” He frowns at the size of the hospital bed. He’s six four and built for rugby and doing things to me that turn me inside out and upside down.

“Squeeze on.”

Henri glances at the door. For an awful moment I think he’s going to leave me, that he’s going to do as I asked, but then he toes his shoes and kicks them off. Loafers on a hospital floor next to my unused fluffy slippers.

He settles down, curving a protective embrace around my failing chest. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.