In my mind, I’m curled up on my couch in an old T-shirt and yoga pants, shoveling ice cream the flavor of Damsel in Despair into my mouth with a serving spoon in a very unattractive manner.

In reality, I’m standing in the back of the ornately decorated ballroom wearing a silver evening gown and holding a clipboard while watching my seedling company get trampled more and more with every pathetic bid on the as-of-yet unfinished 1955 Chevy Bel Air.

The past forty-eight hours have been a blur of tears, anger, and last-minute prep for this evening’s annual Love for Littles gala event. Everything worked perfectly according to my plans—food, drinks, music, decorations, and even the weather turned out beautiful. Everything except for the focal point of the entire theme and the basket I put all my eggs in. So stupid.

I would’ve preferred ripping off my fingernails with pliers rather than inform the board they were right, but it couldn’t be helped. It was better to tell them as soon as I’d had an alternate plan in place, so they had time to cool down before tonight. Thankfully, when I offered to meet them in person with another update, they couldn’t make it work with their schedules and requested it via email, so at least I didn’t have to see their smug “we knew it” faces when I admitted failure.

I also managed to avoid Michael by texting and asking him to give me until after the event to talk, then I stayed at John’s house. I knew Michael’s brotherly instinct would be to smash through my walls and work it out right away, but the social worker in him would respect my emotional boundaries, and I used that to my advantage.

As for the board members, after voicing their disappointment for how things turned out, most of them didn’t make the effort to speak to me today. All except Mr. Fitzgibbons and my father, neither of whom have wives forcing them into conversations over champagne and canapés.

“It’s a shame the actual car isn’t here,” Mr. Fitzgibbons points out for the dozenth time. “Bidding on the idea of a classic car is vastly different than seeing one in front of you.”

The temptation to let my eyes roll into the back of my head is strong, but I keep them firmly locked in the forward position. My gaze bounces from the auctioneer who’s leaned over his raised podium, desperately trying to drum up excitement and drive up the bids, to scanning the showroom-turned-ballroom floor for any paddles flashing in the crowd.

There aren’t many.

“Yes, well, despite the missing vehicle, Tom,” my father says smoothly, “you know as well as I that everyone in here can afford to drop a mint on nothing more than an idea and still buy a whole warehouse of classic cars if they wanted. They’re aware this is for two well-deserving organizations—they should be bidding regardless of what’s in front of them. Their reservations to do so have nothing to do with my daughter’s planning.”

The support from my dad—backhanded though it was—is enough to tear my attention away from the floundering auction. “Thanks, Dad.”

He acknowledges my gratitude with a stiff nod, but keeps his gaze forward, allowing me a nostalgic moment to study his profile. He’s handsome in his tux, reminding me of how he looked when I was young, and he and Mom attended regular charity functions. The only differences are the gray hair, distinguished wrinkles, and the absence of my beautiful mother on his arm. God, I wish she was here. Or maybe not, because I feel like I’m letting her down.

At this rate, this will be the least successful year, and since the money has to be split between two causes, it’ll be an epic failure. The Children’s Hospital won’t have enough for the new beds and other equipment they need, and Lost Ones won’t have much to help kids like Jade at the Heart House. And all because I put my faith in the wrong man.

Wrong man. That’s a lie, I don’t really believe that. There’s no universe in which Peter Pan is the wrong man for me, not when comparing his heart to mine. Unfortunately, there’s more to life than just love. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish differently.

I’ve replayed that scene in Peter’s garage a thousand times, and the things I said to him make me cringe. After that meeting, I was a grenade, held in the trembling hands of my waning hope with the pin already pulled. When I heard the car wasn’t ready, that tiny thread of hope holding me together disappeared. Three seconds later, I exploded, hurling verbal shrapnel in every direction except mine.

Could Peter have done things differently that would’ve ensured the car was done on time? Yes. But it’s not like I was turning down his invitations for weekly dates. I could’ve asked him to use the time to work on the car with the incentive that we could hang out once it was complete. I could’ve insisted he not wait for me to pick out the accessories and other details, which I’m pretty sure was just a ploy to spend extra time with me since he overruled most of my decisions anyway.

The point is, he’s not the only to one to blame in this, and I know he never would’ve let me down on purpose. If that shipment had come in on time, he would’ve worked his butt off to make sure I had the car. I’m not saying that realizing these things changes my mind about us not working as a couple. Just that I want to apologize before I go back to Charlotte. I don’t want bad blood between us. Regardless of everything else, I still love him. I always will.

But despite what Peter told me when we were seventeen, slow dancing on the beach, happy endings aren’t written in the stars, and sometimes love itself is not enough.

Choking back a sigh and blinking the sting of tears away, I stare at the huge banner at the front of the room displaying a picture of what the Bel Air will look like in its finished state. I had to pay out the nose for a rush job and the fancy remote-controlled retractable design, but since I didn’t have a car, I needed to go as “big” as I could with its proxy. Unfortunately, as Mr. Fitzgibbons has been so kind to remind me repeatedly tonight, it’s not doing the trick.

“Thirty-five thousand, thank you, sir,” the auctioneer says, pointing at the last person who raised their paddle half-heartedly. “Can I get thirty-eight thousand? Let me see thirty-seven, thirty-seven thousand…”

I tune out as he starts rattling off nonsensical things between shouting out the car’s supposed highlights. “I need a drink,” I mutter.

But before I can take a single step in the direction of the bar, Michael skids to a stop in front of me. “Not yet, you don’t. Stay right there,” he says, his cheeks flushed and chest heaving with shallow breaths.

This is the first time I’ve spoken to him since the other day. I listened to his impassioned speech earlier about the foundation and our mother’s mission, and I was so proud of him. Most guys his age were barely out of their frat party stage, if at all, but Michael was hard at work making a difference in the lives of so many kids.

My baby brother is an inspiration and an amazing human. I can’t be mad at him for going to bat for me and giving me an opportunity I wouldn’t have otherwise had. I just wish he’d been honest with me from the beginning, and I convey that to him with nothing more than a look.

He nods and takes my hand in both of his. “I know, and I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

I give him an affectionate squeeze and smile. “Already forgiven.”

“Great. Oh, shit.” He ignores our father’s chastising glare for cursing in public to answer his vibrating phone. “Yeah, sorry, I’m coming. Hang on a sec. I said I’m coming, damn.” Hanging up, he again tells me to stay put then rushes off muttering something about a “sassy dixie,” whatever the heck that is.

I watch in confusion as Michael whispers something to the auctioneer who hits the remote to lower the gigantic banner. My stomach leaps into my throat. “What’s he doing? They’re only up to forty-thousand. It could still go higher, why is he stopping—”

Panic turns to shock as the banner lowers enough to reveal what’s waiting on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. I chose this venue because of that wall. It has two sliding doors that part to allow large things inside. Like a gigantic sculpture or a decorative courtyard fountain.

Or a cherry red 1955 Chevy Bel Air convertible like the one staring back at us as the glass sliders are pulled open. And standing next to it is the most handsome man to ever look uncomfortable in a tuxedo and dark green bowtie.

I’m speechless, but I’m apparently the only one. Excited chatter spreads through the crowd like wildfire as a platinum-haired girl in grunge band attire slowly drives the car into the spot I’d designed for it at the front of the room. Tink revs the engine a couple of times, showing off the power before it settles back into the purr of a luxury car, then turns it off and hops out.

I think Mr. Fitzgibbons is talking to me—asking if I knew this was going to happen, if I planned it, and something about it not being very sporting of me to not let them in on the dramatic reveal. But I’m not paying attention to him or anyone other than Peter, who’s ascending the small stage to get behind the podium. He glances over at Michael standing with Tink—oh duh, sassy pixie, not dixie—who nods in my direction.

As soon as Peter’s gaze meets mine, my heart flips in my chest and the beating wings in my belly are like fairies on speed. A million and one things are racing through my head, and my emotions are a tangled string of poorly packed Christmas lights. But then he speaks into the microphone—his honey-rich voice echoes through the room, vibrating along my skin—and my knees almost give out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the late arrival of your auction piece, but let me take this opportunity to tell you about how special she is.”

Electric blue eyes span the distance and fill the fissures of my heart with their warmth and sincerity.

“This model is absolutely timeless,” he continues. “Sleek and classy with understated power and confidence. Whether racing on a straightaway or meandering along life’s scenic route, she always reaches her destination with style and grace. She looks great locked up tight, but her true beauty shines when you open her up to the heavens and let her fly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says again, still holding my gaze, “it’s entirely my fault your car wasn’t here on time. But I can assure you…she’s worth waiting an eternity for.”

I don’t even realize I’m crying until tears splash onto my skin above the sweetheart neckline of my dress. I’m going to look like a mess, but I don’t care if my mascara streaks down my face and my eyes get puffy and swollen. Because the boy I’ve loved since I was twelve-years-old is standing before me (and a few hundred socialites) as a man professing his love for me in the language he knows best—mechanic lingo.

Peter jumps off the front of the stage and heads straight for me. The room erupts into a flurry of action as people get up from their tables to inspect the Bel Air, and the auctioneer gets back on the microphone to point out all the features, this time actual facts about the classic car and not thinly veiled metaphors for the event planner in residence.

A waiter walks by with flutes of champagne. Without thinking, I snag one and tip it back to drain the entire thing.

“Wendy,” my dad whispers in his scolding tone.

“Not now, Dad, okay?” I hand him the empty glass and keep my voice low enough, so no one else can hear. “If Mom were here, she’d tell you to lighten up. The world wasn’t ending before, and it sure as hell isn’t now that the car is here. So please, give me whatever break you can muster, then lecture me on how I’ve ruined my life later.”

Shock flashes in his eyes, but he doesn’t get the chance to respond before Peter reaches us with Michael and Tinker Bell in tow, and suddenly, my two worlds collide. I imagined introducing my parents to Peter and the others a thousand times when I was young, but it was never anything as public or complicated as this. How do you stop a potential train wreck when you don’t even know if either train has working brakes?

“Mr. Darling, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Peter says, extending his work-roughened hand. “My name is Peter Pan, owner of LB Automotive.”

My dad studies Peter’s hand as he would a rusty bear trap, wondering if it’s safe to place his hand inside, or if by playing nice it’ll somehow expose his vulnerabilities. After what seems like an hour, he grips Peter and shakes his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pan. You did a fine job on the Bel Air. We appreciate your hard work for the hospital and our foundation.”

“I’m glad it’s going to help both organizations, Mr. Darling, but truth be told, I did it solely for your daughter.”

“Oh? How well do you—”

“Very well,” Peter says, his words heavy with meaning. My cheeks grow warm, but neither man is paying me much attention as Peter seems to have things he needs to get off his chest. “Wendy’s told me so much about you over the years, sir, I feel like I already know you. Which is why I know you’re having a hard time accepting that your little girl abandoned everything you worked so hard to give her in favor of something completely unrelated, not to mention financially risky.”

“Well, I…um…yes, I-I suppose that’s true.” Michael and I exchange a look of awe. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard my father stammer. Drawing his shoulders back, my dad clarifies, “I’m simply concerned for her future. I’m her father, after all, and I care about what she does with her life.”

Peter nods. “I understand, which is why you can rest easy. Wendy’s an amazing event planner—I’ve seen what she can do, and I think tonight proves she’s capable of creating magic out of thin air—and it won’t be long before Second Star Events is a top-tier event planning company.”

My dad scans the room as though taking in the decorations and attention to details for the first time. In the background, the auctioneer has resumed the bidding and amidst all the unintelligible sounds, I make out numbers in the two-hundred thousands already.

“Yes,” he says, toying with a side of his mustache. “I agree, she’s quite good.”

It’s a good thing I’ve never been the fainting sort of girl. “Quite good” is high praise from George Darling, and I dare to hope he might start supporting my new career instead of trying to convince me to return to the old one. Cutting a glance at Peter, Dad narrows his eyes as though trying to place him. “How did you say you and my daughter met, Mr. Pan?”

“I didn’t.” Peter’s mouth twists into his innocently mischievous smile, the very definition of dichotomy, which my father will never understand because it doesn’t fit into his black and white view of how the world and its people work. “It’s not our past that matters, Mr. Darling, it’s our future. And I’ll travel to the ends of the earth to make sure we have a long and happy one.”

My dad’s brow crinkles, but Michael swoops in to spare us the rest of this conversation and save it for another time. “Come on, Dad, there’s a sidecar with your name on it over at the bar. Let’s leave these two to talk.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as my brother ushers him out of earshot, but it gets stuck in my chest again when Tink steps in front of me. My nerves are shot, and I’m afraid I won’t have my usual patience and understanding when she fires off at the mouth about her disdain for my general presence.

“Hi, Tink,” I say, doing my best to offer her a genuine smile. “The car looks amazing, and I know it wouldn’t be here without your help, so thank you.”

“Actually, it would’ve been here a lot sooner if I hadn’t intercepted the shipment with the hope you’d break up with Peter,” she says bluntly. “So, you know, sorry about that.”

My jaw unhinges and hits the top of my silver glitter heels.

“Tink, that’s not what I told you to apologize for,” Peter says.

“She should know it wasn’t your fault, regardless of whatever blame you want to place on yourself. Whether you dicked around or not, the truth is, you still would’ve had it done if I didn’t do what I did.”

I’m floored. I mean, I knew Tink was territorial over Peter, but I never guessed she would go so far as to intentionally come between us. “Wow…I’m not sure what to say,” I admit.

Anger bubbles hot in my veins, and my initial reaction is to lash out and demand to know if she understands that her actions potentially ruined my relationship with Peter as well as my company’s reputation. But then I remember how she was raised—without a mom like mine to teach her empathy and kindness. She was exposed to just as much neglect and brutality as I was shown love. And despite the logical part of me arguing Tink should know better as an adult, my heart pleads with me to be understanding of that little girl.

“Thank you for being honest. I wish you’d tell me what I can do to make you not hate me so much.”

“Guess this is your lucky day. Turns out, I don’t hate you anymore. I’m not explaining why, so don’t bother asking.” She glances over at Peter who arches a thick, blond brow expectantly. Sighing, she adds, “But I am apologizing for treating you like shit over the years. As long as you make Peter happy, I promise not to do that anymore. Unless you royally piss me off for some reason.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “That’s enough, Tink. Go keep Michael company for a while.”

Her cheeks grow pink, and it looks like she’s struggling to keep her disinterested expression. “I’d rather pull my eyelashes out one by one. I did what I came here to do. I’m calling Si to come pick me up. Later.”

And with that, the only girl of the Lost Boys clan sashays her punk butt through the throng of socialites, not giving a crap that they’re all staring after her like she’s part of a circus sideshow, and it makes me laugh. “I’m going to enjoy holding her to that not-hating-me thing. What do you think she’ll say to a girly sleepover with face masks and rom-coms?”

“I think it’s a good way to make her hate you again,” he says with a grin.

I wrinkle my nose in delight. “Yeah, I know. But it’d be so much fun to ask just to see the horror on her face.”

Peter steps fully in front of me, effectively eclipsing my view of the world around us. Everything fades away when he’s this near, and it brings what I’ve missed the past couple of days into sharp relief.

“Enough about Tink, Wen,” he says, his voice low and deep. “It’s time to talk about us.”

“Oh, I—”

“Going once? Going twice? SOLD! To the gentleman in the back for four-hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”

Did I hear that right? The car sold for almost half a million dollars? My heart races as I search for the buyer and almost choke when I see Mr. Fitzgibbons accepting handshakes of congratulations as he makes his way over to me and Peter.

“Mr. Fitzgibbons, you bought the car?” I ask wide-eyed.

“What can I say, Ms. Darling,” he says with a satisfied grin, “once I saw it in person, I couldn’t resist. Great job on the rebuild, Mr. Pan. I’d like to discuss doing more business with you in the future, if you’re interested.”

Peter shakes his hand firmly. “Absolutely, sir. Wendy knows how to get a hold of me. Look forward to talking with you.”

“And as for you, Ms. Darling…” I hold my breath as he surveys the room. “Excellent job. The board is extremely pleased, and we hope you’ll have another exciting idea for us next year.”

Relief and happiness bubble to the surface, and I’m helpless to stop the laughter from escaping with my smile. “Yes, sir, I would love that. Thank you very much.”

The older man nods his goodbye and heads toward his new car, inviting people along the way to come and be envious. Somewhere in the last few minutes, the staff pulled the tables and chairs out of the center of the room to reveal the wooden dance floor. The band starts playing an instrumental rendition of “If” by Bread, one of my mom’s favorite ballads from the 70s about unconditional love that stands the test of time, even after the universe burns out.

“Wendy Moira Angela Darling, will you do me the honor of high-school-slow-dancing with me?”

I hesitate, glancing from my clipboard of checklists to Peter’s offered hand and back to my checklists. Biting my lip, I try to predict who might need me for which reasons. “Peter, I don’t think—”

“She’d love to dance with you,” Michael says, snatching the clipboard away from me. I try to protest, but he shushes me like a child. “Go on now and let baby bro take care of things. I totally got this.”

“Thanks, man,” Peter says, taking my newly free hand. “I owe you one.”

Michael smirks as though he already knows what he’s cashing it in on. “I’ll remember that.”

Once on the dance floor, my sexy mechanic pulls me in close, and it’s like we’re seventeen all over again. Except there’s a mammoth chandelier dripping with crystals instead of a full moon, barefoot casual is replaced with black-tie attire, and he’s about a million times more handsome. But even though we’re surrounded by a few hundred people, it still feels as though we’re the only people in the room.

“For the record,” he says gruffly, “I wanted to let you know I was coming with the car, but the girls suggested I shouldn’t get your hopes up before I made sure we didn’t have any problems. Then we actually did have a hard time getting the seats in right, so we were cutting it closer to the wire than I’d have liked. After all that, I figured I might as well make an entrance.”

“Mmm, you definitely did that.” I wonder if I’d have even spoken to him if I hadn’t had that time to cool off and think things through. Maybe it was for the best it happened how it did. “As great as it would’ve been to not to be sick with nerves, even I can admit that the dramatic entrance was pretty cool. It probably even helped with the bidding wars.”

“Still, I hated knowing you were hurting and worrying—hated even more knowing I caused it and couldn’t comfort you because I didn’t deserve to do even that. I don’t ever want to see that look in your eyes again.”

“What look?” I ask as we sway gently from side to side.

“The one where I’ve failed you.”

His voice is thick with emotion, and it kills me to know he was hurting just as much, if not more. “Peter, it wasn’t only you. I should’ve taken responsibility for my own actions, or inactions. Let’s forget about it, okay? It’s over and done with. Water under the bridge and all that.”

“You’ve always been the best of us, Wen. I don’t deserve you, never have.” I open my mouth to argue with him, but he stops me with a crooked grin. “Let me finish before you berate me, okay?”

I nod, amused and curious to hear where he’s going with this. “Go ahead.”

“Like I said, I’ve never deserved you, but I never cared either. I had you, so why question it? To me, questioning it was nothing more than tempting fate to take you away, and that was the last thing I wanted. So, I embraced the mentality of ‘be thankful for what you have.’”

“Ignoring for the moment that I disagree with your assessment of never deserving me,” I counter, “that seems like a great mentality to have. It’s what we always preached to the boys when they were young. It helped them to think positively about what they did have instead of negatively about what they didn’t.”

“And in those cases, that line of thinking is great. But I’ve realized that it’s the wrong attitude to have when it comes to loving someone.”

I swallow and force the words past a throat tight with emotion. “What’s the right one?”

He reaches up to brush his knuckles across my cheek before anchoring his hand at the back of my neck possessively. “Instead of being thankful that I’ve somehow landed an incredible woman I don’t deserve, I need to do everything I can to become the man she does deserve.”

“Peter—” It’s difficult to get anything more out as the tears begin to fall. “You already are that man.”

“No, I’m not. But I swear to you that I will be. We’re going to take things slow for a bit. You have things to do and take care of in Charlotte, and I’m going to hire your dad to help me put a plan together for expanding LB with a rebuild business. I’ll visit you in Charlotte on the weekends—if you’ll have me—and some weekends, I hope you’ll come visit me and the gang in Neverland. How’s that sound?”

My head is spinning. I can hardly believe the all-fun, all-the-time Peter Pan is suggesting such practical, responsible things. “That sounds…I mean, it’s great, but…so this is like a trial run at a long-distance relationship?”

His brows crinkle together. “Hell, no,” he grates out. “I have every intention on us being together-together, even if that means I eventually move to Charlotte. I told you before, I’m not letting you get away again. But first, I’m going to prove to you that I’m worth keeping around. Forever.”

Smiling through my tears, I say, “I do like the sound of that, very much.”

Peter frames my face with his strong hands and kisses me like our future depends on it. It doesn’t—I already know that Peter meant everything he said, and I have no doubt he’ll follow through on all of it—but who am I to stop a kiss so all-consuming? This is definitely one of those moments where being happy with and enjoying what you get is perfectly acceptable.

I have no idea how much time passes before he forces us to break apart. More than a bit dazed, I glance around and ask, “Whoa, what day is it?”

He chuckles and gathers me closer. “Wendy Moira Angela Darling,” he says, “you just nailed the biggest event of your career, secured the Love for Littles account as their permanent planner, and accepted your boyfriend’s groveling apology in the most dramatic fashion. Everyone’s dying to know, what are you going to do next?”

Chuckling at his impersonation of a specific line of commercials, my answer is easy. “I’m going to Neverland!”

“Hell yeah, you are,” he says, lifting me up and spinning me around before setting me back on my heels. “Okay, you ready?”

I laugh. “No, I can’t leave until the event is over.”

“Worth a shot.” Then, giving me his infamous smirk—the one that’s all mischief and sans innocence—he leans in and speaks low for only me to hear. “Then let’s go find a janitor’s closet and you can check inventory while I check how deep I can bury myself in your sweet body from behind.”

Sweet baby Jesus in a manger. Suddenly, it’s about one thousand degrees in the ballroom and my face flushes to embarrassing proportions. I’m about to tell him to behave himself when he quirks a challenging eyebrow at me, and I make a rash decision I might regret in fifteen minutes. But probably not.

Bracing my hands on his lapels, I lift up on my tiptoes and whisper into his ear. “It won’t be easy getting me to fly in a broom closet, Pan. Let’s see how well your magic works in small spaces.”

“Angel, if I were a fairytale character, I’d be Harry Potter. A broom closet is the perfect place, even better if it’s under a set of stairs. Let’s go.”

Giggling like I’m seventeen all over again, I let Peter lead me through the empty halls. We don’t find a janitor’s closet, but we do find a secluded alcove under a set of stairs where we’re hidden away from view. Then, pressed into the corner and shielded by his body, Peter rucks my dress up around my waist and reminds me how effortless flying is with nothing more than happy thoughts, a little magic, and a searing kiss from the man I love.