Chapter 2 #2
He says nothing. Just looks at me in that quiet, unhurried way he has, and I become suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how close we’re standing.
Close enough that I can smell him—something warm, like cedar and laundry detergent—and that is not information I needed tonight.
The pantry hums with a silence that feels louder than the party outside, and I realize I’ve stopped breathing at a normal rate.
I force myself to look back up at him.
That was a mistake.
He’s looking down at me with an expression I don’t have a name for. Not his usual smirk. Not the raised eyebrow. Something quieter than both, and significantly more inconvenient.
Stop it, I tell myself. This is Micah.
“Just please don’t make it weird,” I say, mostly to fill the silence.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is—that dimple.
Just one, tucked into his left cheek, appearing only when his smile is real instead of practiced.
It is, without question, the single most disarming thing about Micah Sanders, and I have spent the better part of two years pretending it doesn’t exist.
I look away.
“I’m literally standing in a pantry with you right now. It’s already weird.”
Before I can respond, the door swings open.
Ivy stands in the doorway, eyes wide, a half-eaten s’more in one hand. “Um...what are y’all doing?”
I step back so fast I nearly knock over a bag of flour. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“We were just—” I glance at Micah, who looks far too amused by this entire situation. “Talking.”
“In the pantry?”
“It’s quiet in here.”
Ivy’s gaze bounces between us, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Right…quiet. Got it.”
She backs out of the doorway, still grinning, and I resist the urge to throw something at her.
When I turn back to Micah, he’s already moving toward the door. “We should probably get back out there before people talk.”
“You worry too much.” I mutter.
He pauses in the doorway, glancing back at me. “For the record. I didn’t say no.”
My heart does this weird little flip. “You didn’t say yes either.”
“I’ll think about it.”
And then he’s gone, slipping back onto the terrace as if nothing happened.
I stand there for a second longer, staring at the space where he just was, my pulse still racing.
I’ll think about it.
Not a yes. But not a no either.
I grab the box of graham crackers—to make it appear as if I wasn’t in the pantry for nothing—and head back outside.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur.
We eventually make it to the actual Bible study portion, though I’m pretty sure I spend more time watching Micah across the fire than actually paying attention to the discussion.
He’s sitting next to Gray, laughing at something someone said, completely at ease in a way I’ve never been able to manage.
And when he catches me staring, I look away.
By the time everyone leaves, I’m exhausted. Ivy and Gray are the only ones left—perks of being married, I guess. They don’t have to awkwardly figure out who’s leaving with whom.
Gray’s stacking chairs on the terrace while Ivy helps me gather trash, and I can feel her watching me. Waiting.
The second I toss the last stack of paper plates into the trash bag, she pounces.
“So,” she leans against the counter, arms crossed, that knowing smile already forming. “Pantry. Micah. Spill.”
I groan. “There’s nothing to spill.”
“Oh come on.”
“I asked him to the gala. He said he’d think about it. End of story.”
Gray walks in from the terrace, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Wait, you actually asked him?”
“Yes.”
“In the pantry?”
“It was private.”
He exchanges a look with Ivy, and they both start grinning like idiots.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing,” Gray says, far too innocent. “Just...an interesting choice of location.”
“It was the only quiet place.”
“Uh-huh.” He leans against the counter beside Ivy. “And how’d he take it?”
“He said he’d think about it.”
Gray nods slowly, as if he’s processing this. “That’s Micah-speak for ‘yes, but I need to pretend I’m being thoughtful about it.’”
“Really?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
“Oh yeah.” Gray grins. “He does that thing where he acts all logical and measured, but he’s already made up his mind. He’s likely to text me in approximately twenty minutes to ask for advice on what to wear. Don’t worry, I’ll act as if I’m unaware of this entire situation.”
Ivy laughs. “That’s actually accurate.”
“It is not,” I protest, even though my heart’s doing that annoying flutter thing again.
“Harper,” Ivy’s tone shifts, gentler now. “Did you see the way he looked at you when he left?”
“He didn’t look at me in any specific way.”
“He definitely did,” Gray says. “I was standing right there. Dude looked like someone had just handed him a winning lottery ticket and he’s trying to play it cool.”
I throw a dish towel at him. He catches it, laughing.
“I’m serious,” he continues, tossing the towel back at me. “Micah does nothing halfway. If he said he’d think about it, he’s already thinking about it. Probably planning the entire night in his head.”
“Or he’s trying to figure out how to say no without hurting my feelings.”
Ivy shakes her head. “He’s not going to say no.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Micah,” Gray says. “And I know that look. Trust me, Harper. He’s in.”
“He’s in for a fake date to make my ex jealous,” I clarify. “That’s it.”
Gray and Ivy exchange another look—one of those married-couple silent conversations that somehow communicates an entire thesis.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing,” Ivy says, her smile soft. “Thanks for hosting tonight. Those s’mores were incredible.”
“Perfect addition to Bible study,” Gray agrees, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. “Though I think Micah ate about seven of them.”
I can’t help but laugh. “He definitely did. I watched him.”
Ivy loops her arm through Gray’s. “Well, we should get going. Early morning tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I say, walking them to the door.
Gray pauses in the doorway, turning back with that serene smile. “Good luck with everything, Harp. See you Sunday.”
And then they’re gone, leaving me standing in my kitchen surrounded by s’mores supplies and the lingering feeling that I’ve just started something I have absolutely no idea how to finish.
I grab my phone, checking for texts I know aren’t there yet.
Nothing from Micah.
But my thumb hovers over Collin’s name in my contacts. The urge hits me hard and fast—to text him, to ask how his day was, to fall back into the comfortable rhythm we used to have.
Miss you. Can we talk?
I start typing, then stop. Delete it. Start again.
Hey, how have you been?
Delete.
I go completely still. It’s been two months, and I still reach for him like muscle memory. Like my heart hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s gone.
But he is gone. He chose to leave. He walked out of that restaurant without looking back, and I sat there like an idiot, staring at a half-eaten chocolate soufflé while the server awkwardly asked if I wanted a to-go box.
I lock my phone and set it facedown on the counter.
No.
I’m not texting him. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of knowing I’m still thinking about him.
Instead, I’m showing up to that gala in two weeks looking absolutely stunning, with Micah on my arm, and I’m going to make Collin Matthews regret every single decision he made that night.
I take a breath, squaring my shoulders.
Game on.