When she arrived, she looked around the entryway and then stepped past me, into the living room.

My flat was, perhaps predictably, tidy and simply decorated, with a smooth black leather sofa and broad matching chairs, a low marble coffee table, and a large, plush area rug.

“If I had been asked to draw a picture of your place, it would look just like this.”

Laughing, I took a step closer to her. “I’m happy to never surprise you.”

She turned, stepping into my arms. “The fact that you never surprise me is one of the reasons I love you.”

We both froze.

“Did I just say that out loud?” she asked, closing her eyes in a tight, mortified wince. “Please tell me those words were only in my head.”

I bent, kissing her forehead. “You’re lovely.”

Something inside me slammed into my lungs, a self-inflicted punch to the chest for being unable to come up with something better.

I love you.

You’re lovely.

It’s not that I was particularly surprised by her words, so why hadn’t I thought ahead and prepared some sort of response? It was official: I was the world’s biggest idiot.

Ruby tensed and began to lean away, but I pulled her back against me, kissing her neck as I madly searched for the right thing to say.

“Ruby.”

“It’s okay,” she said on a quiet exhale, hugging me and pressing her face into my neck. She didn’t sound entirely okay. I wanted to look into her eyes and see what I would find there, but I couldn’t seem to move. She took a breath and after a moment, visibly relaxed. “I know I’m farther along in the feelings department. I’m sorry I just dropped a bomb of awkward.”

“Please, it isn’t that . . .” Only I couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t pinpoint what this feeling for her was, if not love.

Did I love her?

I had no bloody clue what romantic love even looked like anymore; it felt like a foreign language. I cursed Portia for her coldness, for making me question every gesture, for undoing a childhood full of exuberant declarations of adoration, of wicked tiffs with my siblings, and constant affection from our mother. I cursed myself for managing to become such an emotional midget.

I didn’t know what to call my feelings, but I knew they were expanding, and profound, and frightening—after all, losing Portia had felt like being unchained, but the idea of losing Ruby felt so hideous it turned something over inside me.

And what it took for her to express her feelings so starkly and then to stay here in the middle of my silence and wait for me to find words . . . I wanted to give her everything I had, wanted to let her know how absolutely mad I was for her.

I trailed my lips from her jaw to her neck, sucking, nibbling. Feel this, I thought. Let me show you the things I can’t say.

I pulled her coat down her arms, tossing it aside and lifting my fingers to the buttons of her shirt, silently begging her to meet my eyes. She looked up with hesitation marking her features and then she read something in my face—pleading anguish, some needful hope—and she seemed to exhale a world of tension, reaching to pull my face to hers.

“Are you suggesting we postpone dinner?” she asked against my lips.

I nodded, wrapping my arms around her waist and walking us over to one of the wide, armless chairs in the living room.

My hands were impatient: hastily unzipping her skirt, pushing her underwear down her hips, hungrily sliding my palms over every inch of her naked skin. Ruby’s curves were smooth, pale, utterly flawless, and I bent, sucking at her shoulder, grasping her breast in my palm.

Far more carefully, she unbuttoned my shirt, eyes gauging my reaction. “We don’t have to—” she started, but I cut her off with a kiss.

Let go.

She slid my shirt from my shoulders, unfastened my belt, and slowly worked my trousers down my hips until I could kick them away.

Taking me in her hand, she began to lower herself to her knees before me.

I shook my head, in one motion pulling her up and bending to slide my lips over hers, parting them, tasting her. Her tongue was sweet and small in my mouth, pushing against mine with a sudden, aware desperation. Her slim, firm hands pressed against my chest, backing me into the chair, and she followed, climbing over and digging her hands into my hair as she kissed me: messy, biting, moans and tiny pleas escaping as my hands slid down her sides, between her legs, feeling her softest, most vulnerable skin.

“Do you want to move?” she asked, lips wet, eyes heavy.

Did she mean move . . . into her?

“I . . . yes?” I arched beneath her, seeking contact.