He's not fifty yards away. He's not running toward me.

He's here. Two feet away.

And damn...I missed it.

"Ollie!" I gasp.

But then I stop. Because what if the clues weren't enough? What if he's still mad? What if he's not ready to trust me? What if this is it? What if this is how it all ends?

"Skye," he says softly, voice hinting at the passion lingering in his gaze.

Or am I just imagining the warm fire circling in his eyes?

Am I making up the subtle smile dancing across his lips?

"Ollie," I rasp, throat tight, waiting.

He pauses, letting the moment linger, letting all my unspoken questions hang between us, as though he knows they're there. Then he grins. The playful spirit I love blooms to life in his eyes, lifting his brows, teasing. "I'm not sure what you're expecting, but I just came to get my wallet, so..."

My mouth drops open as a glare burns to life. "Jerk!"

And then I do what I always do when he's annoying me-I lift my arms to give him a good, hard shove. Only, Ollie expects it, and he raises his hands, catching mine in his and yanking on my fingers, pulling me in. Before I have time to react, I'm wrapped in those strong, commanding arms, pressed against his solid chest, tucking my face into the nook beneath his chin. Instead of yelling, I melt into his embrace, breathing in the warm, smoky scent on his skin, remnants of a long night spent in a kitchen. I hold on to his muscular shoulders while his fingers grip my sides firmly, promising that they don't ever intend to let go. And before I know it, I'm airborne. Ollie lifts my weight from the ground, unable to hide his enthusiasm as his feet start to turn. Mine fly out as he becomes my only anchor to the world, which is now a blur of white and gray and blue, swirling and twirling through my blurry, tear-filled eyes. I smile into his shoulder, too happy to contain my joy.

And then suddenly, we're not spinning.

We're slipping.

We're sinking.

Because, well, the aforementioned snow and slush and ice and water.

We smack against the ground, a heap of limbs as I land hard on his chest, slamming my elbows and knees into the wood. But he takes the brunt of the fall, head banging loudly on the pier. Ollie grunts, which turns to a cough the second I hit him, sending the air free from his lungs. I groan as the pain settles in, burning hot despite the freeze seeping into my increasingly wet clothes.

"Ow," I mumble.

"Yeah," Ollie sighs. "That wasn't exactly how I planned it."

"I picked this place because I thought it would be romantic," I grumble. "I wasn't even thinking of the hazards."

And then I stretch my neck, pressing my forearms against his chest, using it for leverage as I start to stand. But my eyes find his, and I pause, leaning directly over him. And then I grin.

"Oh my god."

One of Ollie's brows lifts. "What?"

"That wasn't my fault."

"Huh?"

My lips widen as the realization hits, and my eyes go mirthfully wide. "I didn't ruin the moment. You did."

"Come on."

"You're the clumsy one!"

"Oh, you're going to go there?" he asks, incredulous.

I wiggle my brows. "Pretty sure I just did."

Ollie opens his mouth, but I'm not done, not even close for what he pulled when he knows damn well that all I've been waiting to hear all morning were three little words-I choose you. And I have no doubt he fully intended to say them, after making me sweat a little bit, of course. So now it's my turn.

I jump in before he can speak, "And, while I'm at it, here's that wallet that you cared so much about."

Only when I reach back, it's not for his wallet.

It's for a fistfull of snow.

One that I promptly plop directly into his face.

"What the?" he spurts.

But I've already crawled to my feet and scampered away, trying to take cover before he can mount a retaliation. Because, I'm pretty sure I mentioned before that Ollie was the quarterback for our high school football team? And that he played in college for a year before he dropped out for culinary school?

So, yeah.

I don't stand a chance.

I make it, oh, maybe three whole feet before a gooey ball smashes into my shoulder, spraying the side of my face with snow. When I bend down to gather another pile of slush, trying to get him back, another wet shot slams directly into my right butt cheek, shocking me to an upright position as I gasp, spinning.

Ollie is watching, lips folded in, cheeks pulled tight, trying his best not to laugh. But he might as well just let it out. Because the humor rolls off of him in waves.

I wrinkle my nose, pissed, and throw.

He dodges easily.

Me? Not so much.

Another snowball lands with a smack against my chest, a white glob that sticks to my blue peacoat, almost like a target. And I know a lost cause when I see one, so I run, trying to use the trees for cover as Ollie marches closer, fists full of compact slush, taking aim. He fires another shot, which misses, slamming into the tree. But the trunk is thin, and the whole thing shakes with the impact, sending a wave of slush directly on top of me as the wintry mix spills from the branches, my own personal blizzard.

Reaching up, I try to wipe the water from my eyes.

But before I can, an arm slips around my waist, lifting me from the ground, as lips press into the sensitive skin right by my ear.

"Do you surrender?"

"Never!" I cry and kick out with my feet, sending another shock wave through the tree so more snow and water drop directly onto our heads.

Ollie sputters and sets me back on my feet. "Was that really necessary?"

I turn, ready with a retort.

But then I stop. Instead, I reach up, using my fingers to brush the wet hairs from where they're sticking to his forehead, gently clearing the water from his eyes, resting my fingers on his cheeks as he looks down at me.

In a single instant, the mood changes.

No longer funny. No longer playful. But serious, sensual. An electric charge zaps to life beneath my skin, a lightning heat I've only ever felt for him. And even though it's below zero, and we're now soaking wet, my skin is on fire. The air is taut and tight, alive with the current sparking between us, magnetic.

Ollie's grip shifts. His palm dips below the edge of my coat, lifting it slightly, so the heat of his skin presses into my hips, burning through my jeans. And his other hand brushes through the wet hair sticking to my head, thumb caressing the edge of my cheek before settling on my jawline. A shiver shoots down my spine as his fingers dig possessively into my neck, claiming me, so even without words, I know exactly what he wants. And I want it too.

"Skye," he says softly, holding my gaze.

Those turquoise orbs are just as entrancing as ever, luring me in, so I can't look away. Ollie lowers his head. Our noses touch. Our lips just barely graze, but it's enough that when he pulls back, my gut reaction is to follow, to lean a little closer, yearning for more. I stare up at him, pulse pounding, waiting one last time for his answer.

"I choose you," he whispers with all the confidence and all the love in the world. "And I promise, I'm never walking away again. I'm going to choose you every day until forever. Because I spent the past week thinking I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. I spent the past week worried you might never forgive me. I spent the past week understanding what life would be like without you. And I never want to experience that again. After a long shift in the kitchen, you're the only body I want to sleep next to. And when I wake up, yours is the only face I want to see. I'd rather be annoyed by you than happy with anyone else. Because when we're together, life is perfect. Not always easy, not always smooth, but right in a way it's never been before."

He swallows, licking his lips, pausing for emphasis. Because he knows I've been afraid. He knows I had doubts. He knows I had fears. And with his next words, he wants all those nerves to disappear. He wants me to understand that this is real, we are real, and that's not changing-ever.

"I choose you," Ollie says, eyes bright and open and honest. "Always."

And you know what?

I believe him.

But I don't say that. I don't say anything.

Because my letters told him everything he needed to hear, everything that's in my heart. And, well, I only have so much self-restraint. When the man you love says all the things you've been waiting and wanting so badly to hear, the only thing left is to kiss him-and kiss him good.

Which is exactly what I do.

I'm not really sure if I have any more confessions to make. I mean, I guess I have other stories I could tell-I could finish the embarrassing tale about the time Bridge dared me to go streaking, and I dared her to jump in a fountain. Trust me, it's a good story, but that's not the same thing. My life right now is pretty much the way I always hoped it would be. I've decided to try out honesty for a change. Shocking, I know! So, I guess I'll just leave you with this-a little window into a day in the life of the new and improved, but, yes, still hopelessly (adorably?) neurotic, Skylar Quinn. Though, Skylar McDonough does have a nice little ring to it...

I lean into Ollie, clutching his warm hand for dear life as I take a sip of my extra-large, extra-hot coffee, trying to fight the lingering winter air still alive in the early hours of this spring morning. The trees are just starting to bud. Puffy winter coats have been shed for lighter spring jackets. But with the sun barely poking into the sky, the blasts of wind speeding between the skyscrapers still carry a cold chill, one I clearly was not ready to face. But for Bridge, I'll do anything-including waking up at this ungodly hour on a Saturday to race to Union Square to help her set up her stall for the fair.

"Do you see her?" I ask Ollie, excited despite my tired, slightly grumpy mood.

"I'm not sure," he says, drawing the words out as his eyes search through the dozens of other people here, putting their own little pop-up shops together. Since he's got about a foot on me, I know I have no chance of spotting anyone he doesn't, so I wait for a moment until the adorably concentrated expression on his face shifts to one of victory. "Found her!"

Tugging on my fingers, Ollie leads me through a labyrinth of tables and booths until I spot wild red hair in the distance. In my eagerness, I start to lead him. But if you think I'm excited, you have no freaking idea.

"Skye! Ollie!" Bridge shouts the second she sees us. Of course, by that point, we're only about five feet away...

"Oh my god, this looks great!" I tell her as we step up next to the stall. Paintings hang from three ivory walls of tarp, shooting a wave of color into an otherwise bland space. But of course, that was the point. Because Bridge's art, just like her, demands to be seen and felt and noticed. Kaleidoscope landscapes of New York pop, modern yet vintage, turning the concrete jungle into a world that oozes with life and spirit and majesty. And maybe I'm a little biased, but I think her work is a hell of a lot better than some of the stuff she sells in the gallery. Sure, one costs fifty bucks and the other costs fifty thousand, but I'd pick Bridge every time.

Though I'm not sure why I had to get up at the crack of dawn, when clearly, I'm not needed. Because, ever the perfectionist, the setup is already completely done even though the fair doesn't start for another half hour and none of us were here to help.

Well, Ollie and I weren't.

But someone was.

"Hey, Skye," Patrick calls from a crouched position in the back of the booth, laying a few more canvases along the ground since there wasn't enough space to hang them all. Then he glances at us over his shoulder, nodding in a classically bro sort of way. "Ollie."

"Hey," Ollie says coolly. Bridge and I glance at each other with exasperation because Ollie and Patrick have yet to spend a full meal together-let alone a full afternoon. So, today should be interesting.

I squeeze his palm tight, a little unspoken signal to stop being an ass. I'm not sure it's ever worked before, but hey, can't knock a girl for trying. And then I turn to Bridge. "So, what can we do? We're at your command."

"Don't give her that much power," Ollie murmurs. "It'll go straight to her head."

Bridge stares at him pointedly, not bothering to deign herself with a response. And then she glances back toward me, shrugging. "Well, I got a little carried away and woke Patrick up at like five this morning, so we're sort of done."

"You? Get carried away?" I tease.

Patrick stands, leaning over to place his arm across Bridge's shoulder, winking. "Never."

I smile. But not because of the joke, because of them. Somehow, Upper-East-Side-Prince-Charming Patrick and posh-artistic-belongs-in-SOHO Bridge are perfect together. He's a collared button-down shirt topped with a cable knit sweater. She's a black jumpsuit paired with a buttery leather jacket. But, amazingly, they work. And it's all because of me.

Well, not really.

But in twenty years, that's what I'll be telling their children.

By the way, did you pick up on that fashion analogy? Blythe would be so proud. But it's true. He's the yin to her yang. The prince to her Cinderella. She's what I never was. Because Patrick needs a little bit of badass in his perfectly charmed life, someone to call him out when he forgets that not all of us summered in Nantucket, someone assertive enough to force him out of his comfort zone. I'm not that girl. But Bridge? She is. She's the girl who has just enough guts to sneak out of her house in the middle of the night, trust a batty-old-witch who claims to be her fairy godmother, wear rags that look like riches, ride in a pumpkin masquerading as a horse-drawn carriage (otherwise known as my personal death trap), and march right into the ball pretending that she owns the place. That's Bridge. So it's no wonder why Patrick, an utterly charming prince, fell for her. And she deserves it. She deserves a perfect guy like him who will spend the rest of his life trying to make her happy.

Me?

I deserve Ollie. Because we're both annoying as hell, which sort of makes us perfect for each other.

Okay, just kidding.

Not really, though...

"Hey," Bridge calls from the backside of the stand, yanking me from my thoughts, since I've pulled a Skye and completely spaced on the real world. "Could you help me?"

"That's what I'm here for," I cheer, slipping my fingers from Ollie's warm hand to find my friend. She's waiting on the other side of the tarp, clutching a canvas to her chest and smiling like a buffoon. I pause, staring at her. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Bridge replies, voice about three octaves too high. Before I even need to ask, her excitement gets the best of her, and she releases all the tension in her body, flipping the canvas around while an explanation tumbles from her lips. "I wanted to surprise you, but I've been working on this for you and Ollie for weeks, and I wasn't sure if it was ready, and Patrick said I should just stop worrying and give it to you, so I figured, why not now, here? And, well, I hope you like it."

And then she abruptly stops, pulling her lips in, waiting with a hesitant expression.

"Bridge," I gasp, unable to find words. Because, of course it's stunning. And of course, me and my rapidly shifting emotions are overwhelmed. Tears stir at the corners of my eyes as I take in the scene she holds in her hands of New York on a cold, snowy day and the couple all alone at the end of a pier, kissing as the wind whips around them. "Oh my god, Bridge, it's amazing. I can't even, I have no words."

The smile she offers could probably power Times Square it's so bright and full of energy. "Really?"

"Yes!" I reach out with my fingers, pausing just out of reach of the swirling paint strokes, afraid to touch anything because all I'll do is ruin it. "But I can't accept it."

Bridge deflates entirely. "What? Why not? I made it for you."

"I know," I tell her, letting my hand fall away as I meet her eyes. "But I want to be the first person to buy an official Bridget McDonough original. So, I'm sorry, but you'll need to wait fifteen minutes."

Bridge glares at me. "You aren't supposed to pay for it, it's a gift."