Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lucy
I hum happily as I swipe on mascara, meeting my eyes in the mirror with a smile. I had a good day with Gabby and Stella, came home to another little kindness bomb from Nash in the form of a freaking ballet barre. And tonight?
Tonight, I am finally free from the big black boot of death. Wearing a soft, pale-blue dress that skims my thighs and makes me feel like the breezy, effortless version of myself I thought I’d lost when that car almost hit me.
And Nash is taking me on a date.
A date-date.
I smooth the hem of my dress, take a shaky breath, and run my hands through my hair, which falls in soft waves around my shoulders. My ankle feels strong. My heart feels full. Life feels better than I ever knew it could be.
There’s a knock on the doorframe.
“Lucy?”
Nash’s voice is low, warm. The kind that slides under your ribs and settles in places you didn’t know were empty.
“I’m almost ready,” I call back, double-checking my face in the mirror. The woman who smiles back looks happier than I ever remember being.
When I open the door, Nash is standing in the hallway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small white rose.
He’s wearing dress slacks and a crisp button down with the sleeves rolled.
His hair is swept back off his face and his eyes…
his eyes travel from my heels all the way up to my face. Slowly. Reverently.
Like I’m something precious.
“You look stunning.” He hands me the rose with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t feel right, showing up to your door empty handed on our first official date, so I ran out while you were in the shower. Even if your door is the door to my guestroom.”
I press the flower to my lips, breathing in the perfumy scent as the silken petals brush my skin. “Thank you,” I say, suddenly shy. “I don’t know that anyone’s brought me flowers before.”
Nash’s jaw drops, incredulous. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Wish I could.”
“And here I thought it was just your taste in music that needed re-educating. Looks like it’s your taste in men, too.”
“See, that’s the thing. I don’t think I’ve been going out with men. I think they’ve all been boys.”
Nash makes that face that means he agrees with me but wants to drop the subject.
He stands back and gestures for me to walk in front of him, his hand firm but gentle on my lower back.
We stop in the kitchen and I put the rose in a glass, then we step into a glorious spring evening, the sun just beginning to dip low, scattering golden light and long shadows across the lawn.
He opens the passenger door to the truck and offers me a hand as I step up, then carefully closes the door behind me.
When he turns on the engine, he cues up his Re-Education of Lucy Calder playlist. Warm guitar and soulful lyrics filter through the speaker.
“Who is this?” I ask as Nash backs out of the driveway. “I’ve heard this one before.”
“Like it?”
I nod.
“Better than Sandro René?” The glimmer in his eyes suggests he’s been waiting for the perfect opportunity to hit me with that question.
“Yes,” I admit on a laugh. “I like this one a lot better than Sandro. This guy? He’s deep.”
“He’s an oldie, from my parents’ generations. Made it big as pure bubblegum pop, then something happened and he evolved into this.” Nash grins. “Guy’s name is Liam McGuire. He’s worth looking into.”
“If this track is any indication, I’d have to agree.”
“I always knew there was hope for you.” And the look in his eyes—that quiet, softened warmth—makes my chest flutter.
We finish the drive in companionable silence, surrounded by good music and better company.
“Let me know if your ankle starts to ache,” he says as he pulls into a parking spot at The Landing, a high-end restaurant near the pier. “Or if you need to slow down. Or if those shoes are too much, too soon. As your doctor, I should have told you to put on flats.”
“Are you checking in on me, Dr. Kincaid?” I tease.
“Yes,” he answers simply. “I always will.”
The Landing sits right off the pier, with a private upper deck dotted with warm string lights and small lanterns hanging from hooks like fireflies caught mid-glow.
Nash offers me his arm as soon as we’re out of the truck and I thread mine through.
It feels natural, like there’s a place carved out for me there.
Our hostess takes us to a secluded table on the upper deck overlooking the water.
The sun is dipping low, turning the entire bay into rose gold.
The lighthouse blinks in slow intervals.
The breeze smells like salt and jasmine.
Soft live music drifts from below—an acoustic guitar, mellow and sweet.
Nash pulls out my chair. He doesn’t make it a production. He doesn’t wink or say something clever. He just… does it. Quiet and intentional.
Like caring for me is a reflex.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I sit.
His hand brushes my back when he pushes the chair in, just barely—a warm, steadying line of contact that sends a very unhelpful shiver down my spine.
The hostess hands us our menus, then walks away and I take in the view, the atmosphere, the man sitting across from me.
As beautiful as it is here, he’s the one thing I can’t look away from.
I let out a contented sigh. “Nash… this is perfect.”
“Thought it might be your kind of thing.” He says it so quietly, so unassumingly, that I can’t help but smile.
We order our meals. Seared ahi tuna for him and a blackened salmon salad for me. We eat. We talk. The live music and soft clink of silverware threads through our conversation as the sun sets in all its glory and the soft glow of the lanterns and twinkle lights takes over.
Nash leans forward, elbows braced lightly on the table. “Can I ask you something?”
I shrug lightly. “Of course.”
“What’s your dream? Not your career goal. Not what your agent wants. Not what your dad thinks is responsible.” He tilts his head. “You. Just you. What do you want for your life?”
The question takes me off guard. The easy answer—the answer I’ve always given to that question—is that I want to dance. That it’s been my dream for as long as I remember.
I curl my fingers around my glass, staring down at the ice cubes shifting softly inside.
“If I hadn’t lost the tour with Sandro René, I’d say that was the dream.
I’ve been laser-focused on making dance my profession for as long as I can remember.
But, since I’ve lost it, since I’ve been here in this happy little bubble with you, I can also see myself wanting something solid.
A life that doesn’t make me feel like I’m constantly scrambling to prove something. ”
Nash bobs his head, listening intently, the curiosity on his face quietly urging me to dig deeper.
“My dream…” I inhale, my gaze focusing on the sky behind him like I can read the answer in the stars. “I think what I really want is… security.”
I try the word on for size, testing it, trying to understand it. Tonight is the first time I’ve ever answered that question without instantly defaulting to dance.
Nash’s hand slides across the table, palm up—an invitation. Not a demand.
I place mine in his.
He laces our fingers gently, like he’s afraid of squeezing too hard.
Like he knows how fragile this truth feels.
“Somehow,” he says quietly, “it feels like those two dreams contradict one another.”
I blink rapidly, once, twice. “Yeah. It kinda does, doesn’t it?”
And I don’t know what to do about that.
“What about you?” I ask carefully. “What’s your dream?”
Nash’s thumb brushes over the back of my hand. A thoughtful stroke. Slow. Almost absent-minded.
“My dream…” He inhales, eyes drifting out to the water.
“Once upon a time it was following in my father’s footsteps.
Then it morphed to putting more good into the world than I took out.
Now? I want a life that feels honest. Not rushed.
Not chaotic. A life where I feel like what I do is worth the energy. A life where I have a purpose.”
He turns his full attention back to me, something raw shining in his eyes.
“And maybe,” he continues, “a life where I don’t have to carry everything alone.”
“Nash…” My voice is a whisper.
He shakes his head gently, not to dismiss me—but because he’s still processing. Still opening. Still learning how to be vulnerable outside trauma and tragedy.
“It’s easier,” he admits softly, “when you’re around.”
Something hot and sweet blooms under my ribs.
“You make things feel… lighter.”
My breath stops.
Just stops.
I squeeze his hand. “You make me feel safe.”
For a long moment, we just sit there—the ocean stretching out before us, the music weaving through the air, the glow of string lights casting everything in soft amber.
When we’ve exhausted conversation and paid the bill, Nash stands and again offers his arm, leading me out of the restaurant, but pausing just as we hit the parking lot.
“It’s a gorgeous night. Feel like a walk? The view off the pier is something to behold when the night is this clear.”
I grin up at him. “Lead on.”
The boardwalk is lit with small lanterns, swaying gently in the breeze. The waves lap softly beneath us, rhythmic and soothing.
“You doing okay?” he asks as we stroll. “Any pain at all?”
“No pain,” I promise.
At least not physically. Emotionally? I’m not sure how I’m doing.
I’m feeling everything. All of it. All at once.
The comfort of being in his presence. The confusion of realizing my life as a dancer will never provide the security I apparently crave.
The realization that Nash does provide that security…
and that my bootless ankle means time with him is surely coming to a close.
He smiles—a small, crooked thing that feels like it’s meant only for me, a quiet invitation back into our happy little bubble.
We walk until the crowd thins and the music drifts faintly from the restaurant behind us. The moon hangs low, silver and glowing, reflecting off the water in broken ribbons.
And then Nash stops. Turns toward me. Steps in close enough that I can feel his warmth.
“Promise me you won’t judge,” he asks, those storm-gray eyes suddenly vulnerable.
“Judge you about what?”
He takes my hand, lifts it to his chest.
“This.”
He pulls me gently into him, one arm sliding around my waist, careful with my balance, careful with me.
And then he begins to sway, slow, soft, almost shy.
I forget to breathe for a beat. This man—this steady, stubborn, quietly tender man—is slow dancing with me under the moonlight like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
There’s no music except the sea, but he hums. A sound so soft it feels like it was made for my ears alone.
A quiet, low melody against my ear—warm breath brushing my cheek, the vibration of his chest under my palm.
I tuck my head against his chest, letting him lead, letting myself melt into the moment, into him.
His hand stays steady at my back, supportive but never confining.
“How could I judge you for something like this?” I ask as happiness blooms in my heart and works its way through my extremities.
“I’m no dancer,” Nash says simply. “Judgment seemed inevitable.”
“Believe me, you’re doing just fine.”
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs into my hair.
“So are you,” I whisper.
He chuckles softly. “You make it easy to want to be.”
We sway like that—slow, close, wrapped in silver light and ocean breeze—until I lose track of everything else. When I finally lift my head, he’s watching me with an expression so tender it nearly steals the breath from my lungs.
Nash brushes a thumb along my cheekbone, slow and reverent.
“Ready to head home?” he asks.
I nod, even though a big part of me wishes we could stay right here forever.
He keeps my hand in his as we walk back down the pier, and when he helps me inside and closes the door, I realize something quietly, profoundly true:
Tonight didn’t feel like a date.
It felt like the beginning of something more than just a bubble.