Chapter 25 Bastian
BASTIAN
The note in my hand feels both light and heavy, its crisp folds shaking with my trembling fingers. I watch his front door, wondering if elaborate gestures mean more or less when you’ve already seen someone naked.
I pull out my phone and send a simple message asking him to come outside. The whoosh as it sends sounds louder than it should in the truck’s quiet cab, and I watch three dots appear, then vanish, then reappear before a simple Coming appears on screen, making my belly flip.
For the love of cinnamon loaf, I’ve performed in front of thousands of people, and here I am. Nervous like a school boy asking his crush if he wants to go to prom.
Taylen’s door opens, and he emerges wearing his coat, smiling but shaking his head a little because, yeah, this is weird.
“You know,” he says as he reaches the passenger door, “normal people just knock on the door.” But his smile betrays him as he climbs in, bringing a rush of cold air and his usual scent of apples and earth.
I hold out the folded note. “Normal is boring,” I tell him, watching as his fingers brush mine when he accepts the paper. “Besides, proper wooing requires proper invitations.”
His laugh carries warmth that makes my chest tight as he unfolds the note with exaggerated care. “You are cordially invited to be wooed,” he reads aloud with amusement. “A bit formal for someone who had his tongue—”
“Ah-ah,” I interrupt quickly, heat rising in my cheeks despite my best efforts. “This is different. This is…” I gesture vaguely, searching for words that won’t sound ridiculous. “This is doing things right.”
“This is a dinner,” he corrects, but his eyes hold warmth that contradicts his words. “I agreed to dinner. Not a date. Not wooing. Just dinner.” The words carry no real conviction, especially given the way his hand has found my knee.
“If you say so,” I agree easily, letting a smile fall from my lips. “Though aren’t you curious what sort of wooing I’m capable of?”
“Maybe,” he admits after a moment. His thumb traces idle patterns against my leg through the denim, making me want to reevaluate my plans in exchange for taking him back to his place. “I’ve always wondered if you ever had to put effort into your dates or if it came easy, given who you are.”
I glance at him as I pull away from his drive. “All the best ones have made me work for it, but no one like you.”
Winterberry slides past our windows as we drive.
Despite the location change of the festival, the town is still dressed in its holiday finest. Christmas lights twinkle from every storefront despite daylight, people wrapped in coats, holding cups of hot drinks in one hand and Christmas shopping in the other.
“Where are we going?” Taylen finally asks. His hand still rests on my knee, his fingers occasionally squeezing my leg, making it hard to focus on the road.
“It’s a surprise,” I tell him, covering his hand with mine.
He turns his hand over, giving me the chance to link our fingers. I want to continue circling the town until I get tired of holding his hand, but I think my old truck won’t survive it because I’m nowhere near ready to let go of Taylen Howard’s hand.
The community center appears ahead of us, its parking lot already filling with cars. I find a spot for us and kill the engine, but I make no move to exit the truck immediately.
“Ready?” My eyes drift to his lips, but I’m not sure kissing him now is the right thing to do. We’re in public. Sort of. What if he’s not ready for people to know about us? Is there an us?
Before my thoughts spiral further, he leans over, his hand finding my jaw. The kiss starts gentle, almost tentative. His lips are warm against mine, tasting faintly of mint. I cup the back of his neck, pulling him closer despite the awkward angle, deepening the kiss.
When we part, his eyes meet mine. “Okay,” he whispers. “Now I’m ready.”
The community center’s double doors open into a wall of warmth and Christmas music. Volunteers in red Santa hats weave between tables, carrying trays of food for people with limited mobility and clearing tables.
Paper snowflakes dance from ceiling strings, and a Christmas tree dominates one corner, its lights bringing seasonal cheer into the space. The smell of turkey and fresh rolls fills the space, reminding my stomach that nervous anticipation is a poor substitute for actual food.
“What is this?” Taylen asks quietly as I guide him toward the volunteer check-in table with a gentle hand against the small of his back.
“Weekly Christmas lunch for people who might be alone or struggling during the holidays.”
A volunteer with tinsel woven through her gray hair hands us clipboards without breaking the stride in her conversation with someone about checking the gravy temperature.
“Tyler runs a similar program in Stillwater,” I continue as we return the clipboards. “When he visited over Thanksgiving, he connected with Finn about setting this up here.”
Taylen’s expression softens as he watches the young family enter through the main doors, three children bouncing with excitement while their mother tries to maintain order with exhausted patience. “How long has this been happening?” he asks.
“This is the first week,” I tell him, accepting aprons from another volunteer who appears beside us with uncanny timing. “Word’s still spreading, but turnout’s been great.”
The hall fills steadily as we receive our assignments: me on the main dishes while Taylen handles the vegetables and rolls.
An older man approaches his station, and I watch as my…
as Taylen leans in to listen, giving the gentleman his complete attention while the man tells everyone who’ll listen about his late mother’s famous stuffing recipe that his wife was never able to replicate.
The way Taylen naturally connects with people, drawing out their stories with patient interest, makes me forget to serve my own line until someone clears their throat.
I force myself to focus on my job, but my eyes keep finding him across the space between us, drawn like a compass to true north.
Tables fill with people from all walks of life, some clearly struggling with the weight of poverty and the ever-growing cost of living, others bearing the burden of loneliness that seems heavier during the holiday season.
But here, in this space, everyone receives the same welcome, same food, same chance to feel part of something bigger.
“This is amazing,” Taylen says during a brief lull in serving. “How many volunteers are here in total?”
“About thirty between all the servings on each day,” I explain, ladling gravy over sliced turkey. “Plus, whoever can make it each week. Fox, Nikko, and Stone also volunteer, but we’ve devised a schedule where we don’t cross over. We don’t want this to be about us. Here we’re just helping.”
An older woman approaches the serving line, her walker decorated with small bells that chime softly with each step. Taylen hands her roll with a smile that makes her whole face light up. “Just like my grandson,” she tells him, patting his hand with arthritis-curved fingers. “Such kind eyes.”
I watch him blush slightly at the compliment, color rising in his cheeks.
Our eyes meet across the serving table as the woman moves along the line, and then a man who looks to be just a little older than me approaches.
His eyes hold a mix of grief and gratitude that makes my chest tight as he begins sharing a story.
“Twenty-seven years,” he tells us, his voice shaky.
“Twenty-seven years, and I got let go before the holidays when I’d just put all my savings into paying my mortgage.
It’s nice not worrying about that, but finding a new job at this time isn’t easy. ”
I watch as Taylen has a conversation with the guy about his job in a factory a few miles away from here. I could be wrong, but I have a feeling the guy won't be unemployed for long if Taylen has something to say about it.
We take a small break while the kitchen volunteers bring out more food. Taylen excuses himself to the restroom with a look that tells me I’m meant to follow him.
As soon as we’re away from the bustle of the main hall, barely past the kitchen, he backs me against the wall, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“This is quite an elaborate plan,” he says. “Bringing me to a charity lunch, showing off how selfless and amazing you are.”
“Is it working?” I manage, my voice rough as his hand finds its way under my sweater. His answer comes as a kiss that steals all the air from my lungs.
My hands tangle in his hair automatically, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens into something that probably isn’t appropriate for a community center.
Taylen pulls back slightly, but his hands remain on my back while he catches his breath. “It’s working,” he whispers against my mouth.
We take a moment to compose ourselves before returning to the dining room for the next serving slot.
The rhythm of the afternoon continues. More plates filled, more smiles exchanged, more stories shared. Time blurs into a comfortable pattern of service as the crowd gradually thins, children growing sleepy in their parents’ arms, and elderly guests lingering over coffee and conversation.
Before I realize it, we’ve moved from serving to cleanup. Taylen wipes down tables while I stack chairs. The volunteer in charge approaches us as we’re collecting the last of the serving utensils. Her arms cradle two boxed portions of food.
“Thank you so much for your help this afternoon,” she says, her smile carrying genuine gratitude that makes my chest warm. “We’ve got plenty of volunteers to finish the cleanup. You two have done more than enough today, but I hope to see you again next week.”
“Absolutely,” we reply in tandem.
“The children’s choir will be here singing Christmas carols tomorrow,” she adds, her eyes twinkling. “You should come if you can. It’s always magical.”
Taylen carries the lunch boxes to my truck. The winter air feels harsh after the community center’s warmth, making us both inhale sharply as we step outside.
“Where to now?” he asks as we climb into the truck.
I hadn’t planned this next part, but as I see the sun slowly lowering on the horizon and the steaming boxes between us, I know just what to do.
“Dinner with a view,” I say as I drive us back to the farm, past my parents’ farmhouse and my cabin, toward the frozen lake.
I park near the water’s edge by the oak tree, reversing in. Taylen grabs the food and steps out of the truck. I grab the blanket I always keep in the cab and drape it over the lowered tailgate.
We sit side by side, taking a box each.
“Bastian Hall,” Taylen says, “a romantic soul. Who’d have thought it?”
I chuckle. “Sometimes all you need is someone to be romantic for. Besides, who do you think wrote half of the love songs for the band?”
He takes a piece of turkey and puts it in his mouth. I could write songs about that mouth.
The food tastes better somehow in the open air, even though we have to eat it quickly before it cools completely.
“Thank you,” he says, closing his almost-empty box. “It was a really fun day.”
His head finds my shoulder as the last light fades completely from the sky. I wrap my arm around his waist automatically, holding him close against the winter chill that grows sharper with each passing minute.
“Still not a date though,” he murmurs against my jacket, his words carrying a smile I can hear without seeing. “Just dinner, remember? Or more accurately, a late lunch with a sunset.” But his body remains pressed against mine, betraying how little he means to protest.
“Of course not,” I agree easily, letting my cheek rest against his hair. “Just food, community service, and stargazing. Totally casual. Not a date.”
The darkening sky deepens around us while we sit together, watching the stars become brighter in the sky. Neither of us seems inclined to move despite the growing cold.
Taylen’s fingers find mine in the darkness. “You know how this non-date would end perfectly?” he asks.
“How?”
“Take me home and kiss me on the porch.”
I chuckle. “Trust me, I have full intentions of doing that.”
“Good. Because I might invite you in. For coffee, you know?”
“Coffee is good. I love coffee.”