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Make a wish.

Neither of us told the other what we’d asked for that night. But Bishop is standing in front of me with his number against my back, his hand warm at my waist, and the taste of his kiss still on my lips.

Bishop’s hand slides around the back of my neck. “Come here.”

This time, when he kisses me, I don’t need to make a wish. I have the strangest feeling we both just got exactly what we asked for.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

BISHOP

Ikissed Delaney Beckett.

Not the kind of kiss you can explain away. Not a sleepy couch kiss, not a drunken Halloween kiss or something that happened because we got caught up in the moment.

I kissed her because I wanted to. Because I know it was her birthday wish.

And when I tried to pull away, she grabbed my shirt and kissed me again.

Now I'm standing in my bedroom, staring into an open dresser drawer, trying to remember what the hell I came up here for.

Right.

Clothes.

I drag a hand through my hair, catching my reflection in the mirror above the dresser.

Five fucking years.

Five years of convincing myself I could keep my hands off her, and one birthday kiss has completely scrambled my brain.

Technically, several kisses.

And judging by the way my dress pants were getting uncomfortable, changing wasn't optional. I grab a pair of gray sweats and an old Phoenixes T-shirt, stripping out of my button-down and dress pants.

The thing is, I don't regret kissing her.

Not even a little.

Halloween would've been easy to dismiss. She'd been drinking, and I could've convinced myself she didn't know what she wanted. Hell, I almost had.

But tonight?

She was completely sober. Looking right at me when she made that wish, like she knew I'd figure it out without her having to say a word.

And I did.

Because I've known Delaney long enough to recognize when she's hoping for something she doesn't think she's allowed to ask for.

The problem is, I wanted the same damn thing.

I wanted it at Halloween when she climbed into my lap. I wanted it that morning on the couch when she woke up tangled around me. And I've wanted it every time she's looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup or wandered into my kitchen wearing those ridiculous fuzzy socks.

Somewhere along the way, wanting to kiss her stopped being the whole problem.

Now I want the mornings, too. The coffee. The protein shake jokes. The arguments over whose turn it is to feed Darcy. Coming home after a shitty game and finding her curled up on my couch with one of those spicy books that make her chest all flushed.

I've gotten used to having her here. Maybe too used to it.