Page 71 of Two Hit Wonder

Iona let out a shaky breath. "So where do we go from here?"

Maeve's mouth curved. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Did you notice," she said, "how I didn't run away?"

Iona blinked. Then laughed, the sound surprised out of her. "That's a good start, isn't it?"

"I thought so." Maeve stepped closer. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that nothing happens overnight. Things take time. Trust takes time. I'm not expecting you to just forget fifteen years of history because I showed up with a limo and good intentions."

Iona raised an eyebrow. "Nothing happens overnight?"

"That's what I said."

"Interesting." Iona closed the distance between them, reached up, and kissed her. Because she knew things happened overnight, and she knew what kind of things happened overnight, and she’d been waiting fifteen years for this and now… now she didn’t think she could wait a second longer. Maeve was right, she was still here, and that alone was enough to show Iona that things had changed, that Maeve had changed.

Maeve made a small sound of surprise against her mouth, and then her hands were on Iona's waist, pulling her closer, and Iona stopped thinking about apologies and forgiveness and started thinking about how Maeve's lips were softer than she remembered and how her own heart was hammering against her ribs like it was trying to break out of her chest.

"Bedroom," she said against Maeve's mouth. "Now."

"Bossy."

"You love it."

Maeve laughed, and Iona pulled her down the hall. Because they weren’t waiting longer, no matter what else happened. There were things that needed to be done, not just said.

✽✽✽

Maeve had imagined this moment approximately ten thousand times over the past fifteen years, which meant she was completely unprepared for the reality of it.

Iona's bedroom was small and cluttered with half-finished craft projects. There was a loom in one corner that was being used as a clothes hanger. A stack of pottery books on the nightstand. Fairy lights strung haphazardly around the headboard, which Iona switched on before turning back to Maeve with a look that made her forget how to breathe.

"Hi," Iona said.

"Hi."

"We're really doing this."

"Apparently."

Iona laughed, and something in Maeve's chest opened. This was the thing she'd been afraid of for fifteen years: wanting something this much. Wanting someone this much. The risk of it. The way it made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff with no guarantee of a soft landing.

But Iona was looking at her like she was something worth wanting back, and Maeve was so tired of being afraid. She was tired of being alone.

She took a breath and reached for Iona's shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons. "I'm nervous," she admitted, because apparently she was just saying things now. "Which is ridiculous. I'm forty years old."

"Thirty-four."

"Close enough."

Iona batted her hands away and undid the buttons herself, faster and more efficiently. "Forty is a long way away, thank you very much. And I'm nervous too, if it helps."

"It does, actually."

"Good." Iona's shirt hit the floor. "Now stop talking and take off your clothes."

Maeve's brain short-circuited for a moment at the sight of Iona in her bra, soft curves and warm skin and everything Maeve had been dreaming about since she was nineteen years old. Then she fumbled with her own shirt, got it tangled around her head, and had to be rescued by Iona, who was laughing so hard she could barely help.

"Smooth," Iona said. "Very smooth."

"Shut up."