Chapter 24 Date Night
TWENTY-FOUR
DATE NIGHT
JACOB
Inside my camper, candlelight flickers across the cramped space, the air warm and scented with melted wax and vanilla.
I move in restless circles—adjusting, straightening, second-guessing.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling.
A knock breaks against the door.
With a quick breath, I light another candle, placing it at the center of the table. My hands hover for a second before I force myself to step back. It’s fine. It’s good enough.
Maybe waiting a week was a mistake. Too much time to think, to overthink. It’s not like I haven’t done this before.
Just breathe.
And don’t jump her the second you see her.
I move to the door, forcing my nerves down, ready with something cocky, something to set the tone, but the second I swing it open, the words die in my throat.
Lyla stands framed by the night, a vision I have no business looking at.
No boots, no cargo pants. A sapphire satin dress clings and flows, catching candlelight and shimmering like liquid moonlight.
Strappy black wedges make her legs look endless.
Her hair falls in loose waves down her back.
The makeup sharpens already dangerous eyes.
A breeze carries her perfume, warm and faintly sweet. Lethal. My pulse stutters. The low-dipping neckline teases her delicious curves, her smooth, creamy skin illuminated by the glow of fireflies dancing around her. She looks unreal.
Heat surges through me, blood rushing south so fast it’s almost painful. My fingers twitch, aching to touch, to ruin whatever fragile composure I was pretending to have.
What was that about being a gentleman?
Fuck.
“Holy shit.” The words slip out low.
Her smile is pure trouble. “Well, hello to you too, Gorgeous.”
I shake my head, trying and failing to clear the haze she’s thrown me into.
I drag my gaze over her, restraint hanging by a thread. “You’re . . . everything.”
Something softer crosses her eyes before she blushes, barely visible in the dim light. A-fucking-dorable. “Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.” Her gaze takes in my dark green Henley and jeans. Her teeth catch her lip. Sweet Moses.
I drag a hand over my jaw, trying to ground myself. Trying not to think about how easily I could back her against the doorframe and kiss that smirk off her lips.
Do we really need to eat first?
Stop. This is not about you, dumbass. It’s about the goddess in front of you.
Pull it together, bud.
Her eyes flick past me to the table and candles. “Are you going to let me in?”
Right. The date. The date with Lyla. The date with Lyla that I insisted on having.
That date.
I step aside, holding out my hand. “Please, come in.” I shake my head like that’ll somehow knock the sheer need for this woman out of me.
She brushes against me as she passes, satin against my arm, warmth bleeding into my skin. Vanilla curls into my lungs. My pulse hammers.
This night is going to ruin me.
And I can’t fucking wait.
“You went all out,” I say, shutting the door, then regret it. The dress dips low in the back, stopping just before the curve of her ass. I clench my jaw, resisting the very real urge to drag my mouth along the exposed line of her spine, to hear what kind of sound she’d make if I did.
She grins over her shoulder. “You insisted on a date. I wanted you to see how I would’ve shown up if the world hadn’t ended.”
A low chuckle rumbles from me. “I appreciate it. This is perfect.”
She circles the space, stopping at the wall over the sink lined with Polaroids—Mom, Leon, Trish, and me, from childhood to just months before the collapse. She laughs at one in particular. Leon is smacking the back of my head while Trish spits water out of her nose midlaugh.
Her gaze softens. “I’ve never asked—how’d you grow up with Trish when her parents are in Montana?”
I lean against the counter. “Ah. Well, Trish and her parents lived in our town for as long as I can remember, but her mom’s family owns a big farm in Montana.
When the current owners retire, they pass it down to their kids.
Trish’s mom, Anna, was their only child, so she runs it.
But by then, Trish was already in college.
They moved out there while she stayed to finish school, working to help pay off tuition before heading out to join them. ”
“When was that?”
“Six years ago.”
Lyla tilts her head. “Why did she stay so long?”
I rub the back of my neck, exhaling. “She stayed for a guy.”
Her eyes widen, lips parting. “What happened to him?”
Anger tightens my chest, a long-buried frustration surfacing. “Honestly? No one knows. They were happy. I was sure he was going to propose, but then one day—poof. Gone.”
Lyla’s brows knit together, her gaze shifting back to the photos, landing on one of Trish holding up a bass on a fishing line, grinning. “What a bastard.”
“If you want a shot at him, get in line behind Leon and me.” I gesture toward the small booth. “Come on. Can’t have my date standing all night.”
She slides in, satin whispering over the seat. I set a steaming plate of spaghetti in front of her, the rich scent of tomato, herbs, and pasta filling the small space. She inhales, eyes widening.
“Spaghetti and wine?” she muses, tapping a finger against the rim of her glass. “I’m impressed.”
I slide in across from her. My leg brushes hers beneath the table, sending a jolt straight to my chest. “Only the best for you.”
Her pupils darken. “Careful, Jacob. Keep making me feel like this and we won’t make it past the wine.”
“You promise?”
She contemplates, lips parting enough to allow her tongue to swipe across her bottom lip, making my brain short-circuit. “Nah. Like I said. I love a good meal.”
I chuckle and raise my wine. We clink mason jars, because that’s as fancy as it gets around here.
I tilt my glass toward her. “So, what brings a beautiful woman like you to a place like this?” I gesture at the cramped camper, the dim candlelight, the end of the world.
She laughs, twirling her fork. “Oh, you know, heard the neighborhood had good scenery and interesting neighbors. Always looking for a little excitement.”
“Well, I can’t promise Michelin-starred meals, but I can guarantee there are no lines at this establishment.” I wave a hand around, showcasing my five-star camper experience, complete with peeling wallpaper, a rickety table, and exactly one working burner.
She hums, tapping a finger against her chin in mock consideration. “No wait times? Decent ambiance? A chef who’s easy on the eyes? I’ll leave a review in the morning.”
“I only ask that you wait to leave a review till after all the night’s festivities.” I wink.
She lets out a sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh, that feels like the stars just rained down into my soul and lit it the hell up. It’s my life’s mission now to make her laugh like that every damn day.
We fall into something easy. Trading stories, glimpses into who we were before the world collapsed.
She tells me about a diner back home that had the best pies, the kind so good you’d want to bathe in the gooey centers. I admit I once considered entering a professional eating contest before realizing I lacked both the stomach capacity and any actual life direction for it.
She laughs, full and real, and I watch her, soaking it in. The way her lips curve. The way her eyes light up. I store it all away for the bad days.
As she twirls pasta around her fork, lips twitching in amusement while throwing another sarcastic remark my way, I realize something dangerous.
I’ve never felt this at ease with a woman before. Not like this. Not where it feels effortless.
When the plates are empty, I push away from the table, moving toward the counter. I feel her eyes on me—curious, waiting. I rummage through a paper bag beside the sink, the edges crinkling under my fingers. I turn back and set it in front of her.
“What’s this?” She asks.
“Dessert.”
She opens the bag, blinking. She lifts her gaze to mine, something like awe in her eyes. “You remembered.”
She pulls out a bag of cinnamon gummy hearts, fingers brushing over the plastic like she doesn’t quite believe it.
“I found them this morning at the gas station, buried in some forgotten corner. Who would’ve thought a tiny-town gas purveyor would be a fan of these?”
Her fingers tap against the edge of the bag, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.
She needs to stop doing that because I’m this close to reaching across the table, pulling her lip free with my thumb, and replacing it with my mouth.
She tears it open and pops one into her mouth.
The sound she makes is cruel. A low, husky moan of satisfaction, rich and indulgent—the kind that has no business being made over candy. Heat licks up my spine. My grip tightens around my mason jar. I watch her, stunned, utterly ruined by something so simple.
She meets my gaze, knowing and amused, delighted by my reaction just as much as the candy itself.
I’m going to make her pay for that.
“Come on,” she teases, pushing the bag toward me. “One won’t kill you.”
With an exaggerated sigh, I pluck one from the bag and pop it into my mouth.
Instant regret.
The artificial cinnamon burns across my tongue like a crime against humanity. My face contorts before I can stop it, and Lyla loses it, head thrown back, full, rich laughter spilling into the small space like music.
I force myself to swallow, shaking my head like I’ve survived something catastrophic. “Nope. Never again.”
She grins, eyes bright. “I appreciate you trying.”
I lean back, letting the warmth settle between us. My pulse pounds, not from adrenaline, not from fear, but from something sweeter. Something dangerous in a different way.
She looks at me, really looks, and for once, I don’t feel like a man unworthy of love.
Silence stretches. Comfortable. Charged. Then her voice dips, sultry, laced with danger. “So, on a normal first date,” she muses, “how would this end?”
I tilt my head, watching her in the candlelight.
“Typically?” I let the word drag. “I’d drive you home.
Walk you to your front door, hold your hand the whole way just because I could.
I’d lean in slow, kiss you goodnight—just enough to leave you thinking about it long after.
Then I’d message you as soon as I got home, tell you I had a great time, and ask when I get to see you again. ”
Her lips curve, wistful, like she’s letting herself imagine that world, one where we met before everything burned. “And now?” she whispers.
Heat coils low, tight and unrelenting. My fingers curl on the table. “Now,” I murmur, voice rough, “I want to take you to bed and show you what would happen on the typical third date.”
She exhales a soft laugh, eyes glinting with mischief. “As a responsible adult, I have to ask”—she lifts a brow in mock sternness—“do you have protection, sir?”
A sharp laugh escapes me. Before she can blink, I’m up, crossing the camper in two strides. I yank open a drawer, pull out a box of condoms, and set it on the table with a quiet thud.
“Sure do. Had to hide them while shopping with my mother present. Not my proudest moment.”
She snorts. “I wonder what we’ll do once all the condoms in the world expire?”
I shrug. “I guess we’ll go back to the ancient technique of pulling out.”
Tears stream down her face as she clutches her side, laughter spilling out. But then it shifts. The sound fades, replaced by uncertainty.
She reaches out, fingers brushing mine. “Jacob,” she murmurs, voice low and intent, “I need to tell you something first.”
The warmth tilts into stillness, tension curling at the edges. My stomach tightens—not with desire now, but with something else.
Anticipation. Concern.
Candlelight casts shadows over her face, making her look vulnerable and determined all at once.
I slide back into the booth, covering her hand with mine.
“Okay. I’m listening.”