Harper was late.

She hurried along the narrow stone path, dodging iron lampposts and  cyclists, crumpled newspapers and startled pigeons. London's sky was the  colour of old tea today; milky grey light turned all the buildings into  a smudgy painting. On her left, the Thames unfurled like a ribbon,  snaking under old stone bridges and the bellies of battered boats.

"Amarus," Griffin said. "That's what you should call it."

Her stepbrother's voice crackled over the speaker. Harper frowned, switching the phone to her other ear.

"Amarus?"

"Or flamma," Griffin offered, as if this was somehow better. "It's Latin. For flame. Like the flame of love? Or a twin flame?"

"No offense, Griff," Harper said, "but that sounds like a venereal disease."

"What about Cathedral of Love?"

She skirted around a bin. "No."

"City of Love?"

Harper's mouth quirked. "You know that I don't actually get to pick the name of the exhibition, right? The Tate does that part."

The Tate.

The freaking Tate Modern.

Harper still felt sick every time she thought about it. Next week,  dozens of her photographs would be displayed across the Tate's walls for  thousands of tourists to see. Two women holding hands. A young man  rushing to catch the tube with a bouquet of flowers. Diana draping a  blanket over a sleeping David. The collection celebrated couples across  the world, accompanied by plaques that explained how they fell in love.

It was everything she'd ever dreamed of.

And naturally, Harper thought wryly, something was going to go wrong. It always did. Especially with the Wilder Boys around.

"You won't explode anything, will you?" she asked.

"Of course not," Griffin said defensively. "Not on purpose, anyway."

Harper jumped over a stray newspaper. "And tell Haz not to be rude."  She paused. "Actually, just tell Haz not to be himself at all."

"Tell him yourself," Griffin said. "Didn't you see him yesterday?"

"Only for a few hours."

Alisdair and Haz had stopped by to help Harper set up her new flat in  Brixton. It was a modest one-bedroom — more closet than flat, really —  but it had a boarded-up Victorian fireplace, and a dark room where she  could develop her photographs.

She loved it. Warts and all.

Griffin continued. "Dalton said you made him put together an IKEA  bedframe. And then a table. And then some sort of basket chair suspended  from the ceiling."

"I have a lot of furniture," Harper said.

"Funny, Dalton said the same thing. He used the word superfluous."

"Alisdair," Harper said, slightly miffed, "needs to stop reading  dictionaries for fun." She ducked under a low-hanging tree branch. "Did  you know he's coming to the exhibition too? He got the evening off  work."

"And Lawson?" Griffin asked.

Harper stumbled on an uneven bit of cobblestone. She'd reached the  stairs leading up to Vauxhall Bridge, and the familiar rust-red siding  kicked her pulse into overtime. She gripped the railing.

"What about Lawson?" she asked.

"Is he coming to the exhibition?"

"I'm not sure."

"Have you seen him yet?" Griffin asked.

Harper took the stairs two-at-a-time. "When did you get so nosy?"

"Just answer the question."

"No," Harper said. "I haven't."

Her voice was pointed. It was a tone that Harper reserved solely for her brother, the general meaning of which was drop-the-subject-or-I'll-find-a-way-to-make-your-life-miserable. Griffin — to no great surprise — ignored her.

"Did you invite him, at least?" he asked.

Right. On to misery, then.

"Did you invite Cass?" Harper asked innocently.

"Don't be stupid," Griffin said. "When has Cass ever needed an invitation? She just rocks up places."

"Dad told me that you're moving in together," Harper said.

There was a pause. Harper smiled to herself. One point to her. When Griffin spoke, his voice had taken on an edge.

"So?"

"As friends," Harper clarified.

A chair squeaked. "Are we just naming things that are facts?"

"Sure," Harper said. "I'll go first: you're an idiot. You're  obviously in love with her, Griff. Do you really think living with her  is the best idea?" She jogged up the rest of the steps. "What if Cass  starts dating someone? What if she brings him home?"

"It'll be fine."

She dodged a cyclist. "Griffin..."

"Look," Griffin said, "I have to go."

"Griffin." The tone was back. "Don't you dare—"

"Bye, Harper," Griffin said. "Love you."

The line went dead.

Harper sighed, pocketing her phone. Well. She'd tried. And at least  she'd managed to successfully distract herself for most of the journey  here, which had been the main point of calling Griffin.

She scanned the bridge.

Children scampered across the concrete, clutching fistfuls of  doughnuts or balloons. Harried-looking parents pushed strollers.  Tourists stopped to lean over the edge, trying to catch a glimpse of the  miniature stone cathedral tucked below.

The crowd shifted.

He appeared all at once, coloured into life by an invisible artist's  hands. He was leaning against the railing, his dark hair ruffled,  wearing a beat-up leather jacket and jeans. A bouquet dangled from one  hand. Harper's breath caught. He looked beautiful and restless and  completely different than she remembered.

"Lawson," she called.

He turned.

She jogged the last few dozen feet between them, trying to ignore the  way her heart wanted to crawl into her throat. For once, Lawson's  expression was unreadable.

"Hi," he said.

She nodded at the hydrangeas. "You remembered."

It had been a hydrangea bush, Harper recalled, that they'd fallen  into at that garden party; it had only been three years ago, although it  felt like a lifetime had passed. Lawson passed her the bouquet.

"I had dirt in my hair for days," he said. "It was hard to forget."

"We're standing on a bridge right now," Harper observed. "You're on a bridge. Voluntarily."

"I am."

"And you have stubble," she added.

Lawson ran a hand over his chin. "I do."

"And you wear leather jackets."

"Just the one," Lawson said mildly. "I'm not sure that I could pull off two leather jackets at the same time."

Ah. And there he was: the Lawson that she remembered. He  wasn't smiling, but there was a teasing light in his eyes, as if he was  sharing a private joke with you. Harper remembered thinking that he was  charming the first time they met. It had frightened her, then; now, she  secretly enjoyed it.

"I missed you," Harper confessed. "I thought about calling you."

"You did?"

She nodded. "A lot."

Lawson was silent. Her heart was beating so fast that it was almost  painful, and Harper looked away. Oh, god; she'd misread this entire  thing, hadn't she? When Lawson had asked to meet her today, she'd  assumed...

Well.

She'd assumed.

That was on her.

"You don't have to say anything," Harper said quickly. "Not yet. I've  just moved to London. We've had a lot of time apart. I'm not expecting  you to turn around and confess your love for me. You don't even have to  be thinking that word. I'm not—"

"Ohio?" Lawson interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Shut-up," Lawson said, and he leaned in and kissed her.

She stiffened in surprise. But Lawson was gentle, his mouth warm and  searching. His hands slid down to grip her waist, but the hold was so  loose that Harper could push him away, if she wanted to. Lawson's kiss  was a question. Do you want this? Do you want me?

And yes.

She did. She really did.

Harper stretched up on her toes, kissing him back fiercely. Years  melted away, mixing with the silt below the river, and suddenly they  were young again, two kids running along Vauxhall Bridge in search of  something intangible. Lawson made a sound at the back of his throat,  pulling her closer, and Harper knotted her hands in his hair. Her heart  pounded back a response. I want this. I want you. I always have.

She ran her hand down his neck. Over his shoulder. His chest. Lawson  felt different now — he was strong from years of cricket coaching, more  hard muscle than softness — but he tasted the same: all burnt sugar and  lemon.

Finally — breathlessly — Harper pulled away.

Lawson looked down at her intently. There was something hungry in his  gaze that made her shiver, and he cupped her face, running a thumb  along her jawline. Harper had the sense that he was memorizing her, too.  Learning and remembering.

"I've missed you, too," Lawson murmured. "So damn much. And you know  what the great news about today is?" His thumb brushed her mouth. "It's  just a day. And days turn into weeks. And weeks make up a year."

Harper lifted an eyebrow. "Are you teaching me how a calendar works?"

"I'm trying to say that I want all your days, Ohio," Lawson said. "I  want you, now, today and tomorrow. I want you next week. I want you  forever."

She shook her head. "You don't believe in forever."

"I'm starting to," Lawson said softly.

His large hands were warm on her back, stroking delicious circles  under her ribcage. A shimmering bubble expanded in her chest, delicate  and fragile.

"Say it again," Harper murmured.

Lawson's mouth turned up. "You make me want to believe in forever, Harper Lane."

Harper rose, kissing him again.

White birds circled above them, silent as ghosts, pitching towards  the water in search of fish. Cyclists dinged their bells. Children  squabbled over the last biscuit. And below their feet, the Thames  carried on, sweeping thousands of years of history away in its silent  waters. They would be lost to that same water too, Harper thought;  nobody would remember this moment. A boy and a girl, kissing on a  bridge, a bouquet of fresh flowers pressed between them.

But that was okay. Things didn't need to last forever.

Right now was more than enough.