Chapter 38 Harper
Harper
“I’m here to whisk you away.”
Whisk me away?
We are at a dance—there will be no whisking!
And!
Easton cannot stroll over to me all casual-like and pretend that everything is okay, that nothing happened, that he does not have a date tonight. He has explaining to do and will not easily be forgiven.
“You want to whisk me away?” I ask. “I just got here.”
Still. My eyes widen with shock. Easton Westermann stands before me, hands jammed in his pockets, looking as handsome as I’ve ever seen him in his navy blue tux.
So handsome. In fact, I can’t take my eyes off his shoulders; the cut of the jacket emphasizes how broad they are and makes my heart ache.
I’ve felt those shoulders. Have run my hands all over them…
My gaze dips to his tie—pink, with tiny white daisies embroidered on it. It’s a fantastic choice, playful and unexpected.
It matches my dress.
The realization sends a ripple of heat through my body, a smug satisfaction that I can’t suppress. My lips curve in a victorious smile as my eyes flick over the tie again. It doesn’t match Maddie’s light blue dress. Not even a little.
It feels like the choice of color was meant for me—not for her, not for anyone else. Me. And that thought feels as wonderful as it is surprising, and fills me with butterflies.
I cross my arms, fighting the heat crawling up my neck. “Did Maddie bail on you already, or are you just making your rounds?”
His smirk falters, but only slightly.
“We parted ways.”
“Parted ways?” My eyebrows lift, though this is not new information. I’ve spotted her several times near the DJ booth, flirting and taking selfies, Easton nowhere nearby. “What does that mean?”
I want to hear him say it.
He steps closer, raising his voice so I can hear him above the thrum of music and laughter. “After Maddie realized I wanted to be here with you, she told me to find you and…you know. Tell you how I feel and stuff.”
Tell you how I feel and stuff? The words hit me like a gust of wind, knocking me off kilter.
“Maddie told you to find me?” My voice is laced with disbelief. That sounds so unlike her. Unkind. Bratty. Selfish—that’s the Maddie I’m familiar with.
“I might have driven here with her, but we were talking in the car and I told her…”
He clears his throat.
My heartbeat skips.
Be still, my heart! Is this the moment?
Is Easton about to confess he likes me?
“I told her it’s you,” he says simply. “I want you, Harper. I want to see you smile like you did when we were working on those stupid cardboard knights—not stare me down like you want to murder me. I want to make you laugh. I didn’t want…to go the entire night having you ignore me.”
“Who says I was going to ignore you?” I scoff, but my voice comes out shakier than I’d like. “That would be immature.”
My chin tilts up slightly, defiance written all over me. I am not the immature one here.
“I’m not here to argue with you—I’m here to borrow you. I have a surprise, but you have to trust me.”
“Borrow me?” I narrow my eyes at him, doing that murder-him-with-my-eyes thing he mentioned, toes tapping against the hardwood floor. “As in a kidnapping?”
He throws his head back, laughing, and I can’t help but notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. It’s a subtle tell, but one of the little details I’ve learned about him over the past two weeks—one that betrays him when he’s nervous or anxious.
“We started with blackmail. Why not kidnapping? Though, no,” he says. “Pretty sure you would kick my ass if I kidnapped you.”
“Damn straight I would.”
“You have to leave with me to see the surprise.” He steps closer. “Do you trust me?”
My heart skips.
Do I trust him?
The question hangs between us, charged with the weight of all our recent bad decisions. Their consequences.
I glance around the gym at the vibrant dresses. Guys in suits and tuxedos. The loud music. The sparkling decorations…Everyone is lost in their own world. No one would miss me if I left, except perhaps Macy, and she would be the first person to shove me toward the exit.
What’s the worst thing that could happen?
I’m curious.
Enough so that when Easton extends his hand, palm up, I look down at it and begin reaching for it. His eyes never leave mine.
“Let me prove to you that I’m not a dickhead. Please.”
Against all logic and self-preservation instincts, I slide my hand into his. His grip is warm and firm in mine, and for a moment, I bask in our closeness.
“Fine,” I say, my nod slow and deliberate. “But if this ends with me feeling like a fool, I will hold it against you forever.”
His grin widens as he leans in, brushing my cheek with a quick kiss. “Deal.”
Before I can overthink it, I thread our fingers together as he leads me out the door. Across the parking lot.
Straight to a shiny black car I don’t recognize.
My heart flutters, threatening to burst from my chest. This is maddeningly romantic, and I hate love hate how much trouble I’m already in!
Guh!
“Where are you taking me?” I ask nervously, busying myself by buckling my seat belt. The road is quiet as he begins the journey, lit only by the glow of the streetlights, and my nerves tangle with excitement as I watch our little town pass through the window.
“You’ll see.”
Eventually, I realize he’s turned down his street.
Then I realize that not only are we on his street—we’re pulling into his driveway.
I glance over at him, confused. “Did you forget something?”
Easton gives me a cryptic smile and cuts the engine. “Trust.”
I open my door and step out as he rushes around to my side to offer his hand, smoothing my dress as I follow him toward the house. My heels click against the pavement, and I try not to trip on anything in the dim light as we head to the side of the house.
We walk past trash cans, recycling bins, and a riding mower before I stop in my tracks, breath catching in my throat.
Twinkling lights. Hundreds of them.
The backyard is positively glowing, strands of tiny lights hanging from trees, looping across the fence, and draped over his sister’s playset in the far recesses of the yard.
My eyes strain, making out a table. It’s set near his mom’s shed, white linen and candles flickering in darkness, the soft hum of instrumental music playing in the background.
“Easton…” I breathe, turning to face him. “This is incredible.” I am at a loss for words. “How…?”
He grins down at me, pleased with himself. “I called in a favor.”
“A favor from who? When did you do this?” How did he manage?
I can’t tear my eyes off the scene before me. It’s something out of a dream—one that I never want to wake from. I half expect a fairy to flutter out of one of the trees next to his mom’s shed.
I’m tempted to twirl around with my arms outstretched.
“I take none of the credit. That goes to Phoebe and my mom. I, uh—called them from the gym and they masterminded everything.”
“You called them from the dance?”
“Yeah. Half hour ago, maybe?” He shrugs, looking bashful. “Before I found you and said I wanted to whisk you away.”
More butterflies. More tingles. “This is unbelievable.”
Heart-stopping.
A fairy tale.
I look up into his face; it’s lit by the soft glow of the lights. Chiseled jawline. Straight nose. Gorgeous lips. In this moment, everything feels right. It’s not about the perfect prom night or the fancy dress—it’s about this. Him making this effort. Showing me how he feels.
“Why did you do this?” I ask, reaching for his hand.
“I wanted to,” he says adamantly. “You were the person I wanted to share this night with—not Maddie. I should have told her no from the start, and I should have asked you sooner. I let my stupidity get in the way, and for that, I’m sorry.
I was an idiot, but now I want to make it right.
I want to make this night what it should’ve been all along—with you. ”
As he leads me toward the makeshift dinner table, my lips part.
“Wake me, I’m dreaming,” I whisper as a laugh bubbles from my throat despite the lump forming there. The thought, the effort—it’s too much. “Easton, I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” he murmurs, pulling out a chair for me with a flourish. “Sit and enjoy. Oh—I hope you haven’t eaten yet.”
The truth is, I have eaten already. My dad fed me before I left the house—but looking at the cutlery before me, I would never admit it to Easton. This moment is too perfect to ruin over something as trivial as a meal.
Smiling to myself, I lower myself into the chair, the weight of the evening’s spell settling over me.
Then.
As we relax into our seats, a small figure emerges from the shadows of the back porch.
It’s Phoebe.
She approaches with the seriousness of a professional, face set in a determined expression, a napkin draped over her arm like she’s a seasoned server in a high-end restaurant.
“Good evening! Bona sara.” She mispronounces buona sera with a formal air she must have picked up watching TV. “I’m Phoebe, and I’m your server. Can I start you with drinks? We have an excellent selection of water—both cold and room temperature.”
She’s wearing a white apron that’s far too big for her and holding two glasses of water. Gingerly, Phoebe places them on the table as if she were setting down two precious artifacts.
Satisfied that no water has spilled, Easton’s younger sister stands, hands behind her back.
“I’ll be around if you need any refills or anything else.” She announces. “Just yell, ‘Phoebe, we need you!’ and I’ll come running!”
She turns to scamper off but stops, finger pointed in the air.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you two get the best service tonight. Phoebe’s got it under control! Chef is finishing your first course in the kitchen, and Dad put Rudy in the laundry room so he doesn’t beg for food and get in my way.”
With that, she gives a bow.
Welp. She’s adorable.
“They prepared a meal?” I muse out loud. “How did they have time?”
Easton lays the napkin across his lap. “It’s leftover lasagna from last night—that’s the best Mom could do on such short notice.”
I smile behind my water glass. “I love that.”
From this vantage point I can clearly see his little sister clip-clopping around inside the kitchen, head bopping to and fro as they ready our last-minute dinner.
Within minutes Phoebe reappears, this time with more determination etched on her tiny face than before.
She teeters our way, balancing—well, attempting to balance—two plates of lasagna almost as big as she is.
Her tiny arms strain. One of the white plates wobbles dangerously.
Behind her, Mrs. Westermann rushes forward, arms outstretched, ready to catch the plates if they fall.
“Phoebs, honey,” she coaxes gently. “Let me help you with that.”
Phoebe huffs, affronted by the suggestion that she can’t handle both plates on her own. “I’ve got it, Mom. I’m the server.”
“I know you are, baby girl—but let’s not risk having the lasagna end up on the ground for the squirrels, okay?”
Easton’s mom passes a plate to him, then places the other in front of me. The delicious aroma of the leftover lasagna and garlic bread has me positively drooling.
“Ta-da!” Phoebe beams at us both. “Dinner is served. Lasagna made by Mom! It’s the chef’s special.” She gestures dramatically, as if unveiling some grand culinary masterpiece.
Easton grins at her proudly, and quite honestly, I’m so delighted right now I want to leap out of my chair and squish them both. Squeeze. Hug.
Smooch.
“This looks amazing! And I am starving!” I match Phoebe’s excitement. “Best service ever in the history of fine dining!”
Phoebe could not be more pleased by my praise. “Why, thank you, ma’am. Thank you! I’ll be back to check on you soon.” She pauses. “I expect a BIG tip!”
“Big tip?” Easton raises an eyebrow, laughing. “You’re not even old enough to know what tipping is.”
Phoebe puffs out her chest. “I do know what it is! It’s three extra dollars on the table. I’m saving up for new gel pens.”
Easton’s mom laughs softly, standing behind her daughter with an amused expression.
“All right, Phoebs, enough.” She sets her hands gently on Phoebe’s shoulders and begins to guide her back toward the house. “Let them enjoy their dinner. Come on, we’ll leave them for a bit.”
“Fine.” Phoebe hmphs dramatically but lingers. “Hey, Harper?”
“Yes?”
“You look so pretty. I like your dress.”
My heart melts into a puddle. “Aww—thank you.”
“Also.” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t let him eat all the garlic bread. He’s a hog and always tries.”
With that announcement, she turns and scampers back inside.
“She cannot resist being sassy,” Easton says, cutting into the lasagna and bringing the first bite to his mouth. “And I’m not going to hog the garlic bread.”
I take a bite and moan out loud—it’s cheesy, flavorful, and way better than I would expect day-old lasagna to taste. I groan again without thinking, and when I glance up, Easton’s staring at me, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Good, huh?” he asks, grinning.
“So good.” I hope he can’t see me blushing. “Phoebe wasn’t kidding. Your chef is ah-mazing.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a several more minutes, the soft twinkle of the lights, the gentle breeze, and the Italian music creating our own world.
Of course, this is nothing like the night I pictured.
It’s better.
Just us, his magical backyard, and some seriously good food. No one can convince me this isn’t the most delicious lasagna created, day old or not.
“This is perfect,” I tell him quietly, setting my fork down. “I don’t think this night could get any better.”
Easton leans back in his chair, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
I blink, tilting my head. “More surprises?” Surely not!
He shrugs nonchalantly, but the glint in his eyes gives him away. “Maybe.”
A rush of excitement flutters in my chest, and I bite back a smile. How did I end up here, at this beautifully set table, with Easton, of all people, pulling out every romantic trope in the book? I might actually be the luckiest girl in school.