Page 76 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I look up at him. Cock my head. “So . . . that’s it? You were waiting all this time for me to break up with Parker? I gotta admit, Jack. It just . . .” I shrug. “It doesn’t seem like you. You’re not a waiter. When you see something you want, you go for it.”

“It wasn’t about Parker.” And to my surprise, he sounds solemn. “There was something I wanted to take care of first.”

“Did you? Did you take care of it?”

“Almost.”

I laugh. “How very Edward Rochester of you. What? You’ve got some secret certifiable wife stored in your attic you gotta figure out how to ditch first?”

The laugh he gives is only half-hearted, clearly concealing that whatever it is isn’t a laughing matter. “Something like that. It’s all water under the bridge now—”

“I see what you did there—”

“But let’s not talk about it tonight. Tonight’s perfect, and I want to remember it this way.” He stoops down. Brushes his lips over mine in a way that makes the tips of my toes tingle.

“Fine by me,” I say, and kiss him again.

Amelia calls from inside the bus, asking why we’re not moving yet.

Time to go.

I give the door a couple raps.

“So,” I say, tucking my hair behind one ear. “I’ll just, um, see you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow?” he says with a laugh, gesturing at the door after it opens. “Bryony, I’ll continue to see you for the next million hours.”

Million hours.

And that sounds . . . wonderful. That sounds right.

Sure enough, all night he does stick by me, refilling my coffee and scrutinizing his own emails as we both work. Keeping me company, encouraging me as I slash and write. Slash and write. Following my usual rhythm.

Eventually I can see the weariness in his eyes, the slow drags of his typing, like a clock winding down.

“Go to bed, Jack. I’ve written the last six books without you by my side. I can manage to do this one too. I’m in the zone.”

He doesn’t need me to say it a second time. His laptop snaps shut and he grabs his empty coffee mug. Checks his watch as he stands. “Top you off?” He gestures to my empty coffee mug.

It’s one thirty.

I shouldn’t have more coffee.

But then I remind myself of that article taped onto the coffee shop wall with the “statistics” of all the ailments you relieve by drinking more coffee.

A fifth-cup level solves dementia. Might as well go for a sixth and enhance my brain cells to solve world peace. “Please.”

And when I hold up my empty coffee mug, eyes on the computer screen, I feel the surprise of a kiss on my cheek. Turn toward him. Make the second one count.

“You’re amazing,” he says in a hushed voice. “You know that?”

My whole body is still tingling as I take in the first sip of the new mug and the door to the little bathroom shuts as he moves with his toiletry bag inside.

What a whirlwind of a day.

My entire life just changed, didn’t it?

My fingers type despite myself, one half of my brain on the story and the other half still trying to process the elation of the past twenty-four hours.