Chapter 2
Chloe
Choosing a dress shouldn’t be this difficult.
I’ve narrowed it down to three – the soft blue sundress Sam loves, the black dress I wore to the county fundraiser gala last winter, and the emerald green one I bought last month but never had occasion to wear so far. Tonight called for something special. Tonight, Sam was going to propose.
My birthday had already been perfect. I’d woken up to fresh peonies – my favorite – on the nightstand with a card in Sam’s handwriting: Happy birthday to my favorite person.
Can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight.
Love, S. He’d made his signature blueberry pancakes for breakfast, complete with whipped cream and a candle for me to blow out.
When I’d arrived at the clinic, there had been more flowers waiting – a stunning arrangement of roses and lilies with a card that read: Because you deserve beauty in your workspace too. Love, S.
Sarah, my receptionist, had squealed with delight, and even my more reserved vet tech Jenny had commented that Sam really knew how to make a woman feel special.
Then, mid-morning, a delivery driver had arrived with an enormous cake – chocolate with raspberry filling, my absolute favorite – and a note: For my amazing girlfriend and her incredible team. Happy Birthday, Chloe. Love, S.
Sarah had insisted we all take a break to have cake, and even Mrs. Patterson, who’d been waiting for her cat’s checkup, had joined in singing Happy Birthday. It had been one of those spontaneous, joyful moments that made me love this town and this life even more.
Sam had been attentive and romantic all day, texting me sweet messages between my appointments. He seemed excited, maybe a little nervous in that endearing way men get when they’re planning something big.
Now, as I held up the green dress against myself in the mirror, studying the way the color brought out my eyes, I thought about how lucky I was.
This one. It was new, unworn, perfect for starting our new life together.
The fabric felt smooth and expensive against my skin as I slipped it on, and I took extra time with my hair, letting it fall in loose waves around my shoulders instead of my usual practical ponytail.
When I finally made it downstairs, Sam was waiting in the living room, dressed in the navy button-down shirt I’d bought him for Christmas. He looked handsome, and yes, a little nervous – but it was the good kind of nervous. Proposal nervous!
His eyes lit up when he saw me, traveling from my carefully styled hair down to the emerald dress and back up again. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice warm with genuine appreciation. He crossed the room to kiss me gently. “Absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you.” I smoothed the green fabric, fighting the urge to grin like an idiot. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
“I can’t wait to celebrate with you tonight,” he said, pulling me close again. “I want tonight to be perfect.”
Perfect. There was that word. The word that meant proposals and new beginnings, and the rest of our lives, starting tonight.
“Today has already been perfect,” I said honestly. “The flowers, the breakfast, that amazing cake you sent to the clinic. Sam, you made me feel so special.”
His smile was genuine, reaching his eyes in that way that always made my heart flutter. “You are special. You are everything.”
You’re my everything too, I thought, although I didn’t say it.
“Ready?” he asked, offering his arm with an almost old-fashioned gallantry that was pure Sam.
“Ready,” I said, taking his arm.
The drive to Rosewood Inn was filled with comfortable conversation – Sam telling me about a funny incident at the bar where someone had tried to pay their tab with a chicken (“A live chicken, Chloe, I’m not even kidding”), me describing Mrs. Patterson’s reaction to the birthday cake (“She told Sarah that if you ever get tired of running a bar, you could be a party planner”).
Sam seemed more relaxed now, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across to hold mine. This was the Sam I knew – warm, present, excited about our evening together. Whatever proposal nerves he’d had earlier seemed to have settled.
Rosewood Inn sat at the end of a tree-lined street, its Victorian architecture and warm lighting making it the most romantic restaurant in Willowbrook.
Sam had brought me here for our first official date two years ago, and he’d been so nervous he’d called me by the wrong name when ordering.
The waitress, a matronly lady called Cynthia, had smiled kindly and said, ‘Honey, that’s my name.
What’s the name of this beautiful woman who’s got you so tongue-tied?
’ We’d all laughed, Sam had finally relaxed, and the rest of the evening had been perfect.
Tonight felt like a perfect circle, coming back to where it all began to take the next step forward.
The hostess, a young woman I recognized from the coffee shop, beamed at us as we approached.
“Mr. Mitchell, Dr. Parker! Right this way. We have your usual table ready.”
Our usual table. The corner booth with the window overlooking the garden, where Sam had fumbled through asking me to be his girlfriend. I slid into my side of the booth, watching Sam settle across from me, his eyes soft with affection as he reached for my hand across the table.
“I still can’t believe you gave me a second chance after that first date,” he said, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “I was such a nervous wreck.”
“You were adorable,” I said, squeezing his fingers. “Still are when you get nervous.”
His smile was warm and genuine, though I could see the flutter of nerves in the way he shifted slightly in his seat.
His nervousness was contagious. I could feel my own pulse quickening, my anticipation building with every passing second. “Are you okay?” I asked, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You seem… on edge.”
“Just want everything to be perfect,” he said, and there was that word again.
The way he said it, with such complete certainty, made my heart race. This was it. This was the moment we’d been building toward.
Our server appeared with menus and the wine list, her smile knowing and warm. “The usual?” she asked. “Pinot grigio and the herb-crusted salmon?”
“That sounds perfect,” I said, watching Sam nod in agreement. His hand was still holding mine across the table, his expression content despite the hint of anticipation in his eyes.
Then his phone buzzed against the table.
Sam glanced down and muttered a curse under his breath. “Kate knows not to contact me tonight unless it’s a catastrophic emergency.”
I laughed. “Well, you’d better check it then. Maybe the bar’s on fire.”
He picked up his phone, and I watched his expression shift from mild annoyance to confusion, then to something that looked like shock. The color drained from his face as he read, his jaw clenching tight.
“Sam?” My smile faded. “What’s wrong? Please tell me the bar isn’t actually on fire.”
“What? No. No, nothing like that.” He put the phone face down on the table with shaking hands, but I could see the tension that had suddenly appeared in his shoulders, the way his hand had released mine. “Sorry. Where were we?”
“The server was asking about wine.”
“Right. Yes. The Pinot Grigio is fine.” His voice had changed – tight, distracted, completely different from the warm tone he’d been using just moments before.
Something was wrong. The Sam who’d been holding my hand and calling me “everything” had vanished the moment that message came through. In his place sat someone I barely recognized – pale, tense, his jaw clenched tight.
Around us, Rosewood Inn buzzed with its usual evening energy. I recognized several couples from town – the Petersons celebrating something, the Millers on their regular date night, a young couple at the bar who were clearly newly engaged based on the way the woman kept staring at her left hand.
What could have happened in a single text message to shake him this badly?
“Do you remember Cynthia?” I asked, trying to bring back the warmth we’d had just moments before. “You were so nervous you mixed up our names and called me Cynthia the first time we came here.”
Sam’s attempt at a laugh sounded forced. “I was terrified you’d ghost me after that.”
“I’m still here,” I said softly, reaching for his hand again. “Not going anywhere.”
But he didn’t take my hand. Instead, he reached for his water glass, his movements jerky and uncomfortable, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
“Chloe, I—” His phone buzzed again, and this time he couldn’t resist checking it. Whatever he saw made his face go ashen.
“Is it an emergency at the bar?” I asked, though part of me wondered if this was somehow connected to whatever Sam had planned for tonight. “Do you need to go?”
“No. I…” Sam looked panicked. “I need to make a quick phone call. I’ll be right back.”
He was out of the booth and heading toward the restaurant’s back exit before I could respond, leaving me sitting alone with two untouched wine glasses and a growing sense of dread.
He’s calling about the proposal, I told myself firmly. He’s coordinating with someone – maybe a photographer, or a musician, or whoever he’s arranged to help with the surprise.
But minutes ticked by, and Sam didn’t return. I sat there and watched while some diners finished their mains, others ordered dessert, and still others paid their checks. The young couple at the bar left, the woman’s engagement ring catching the light as she waved goodbye to friends.
Where was Sam?
I sipped my wine and tried to look casual, but my professional training was kicking in.
When an animal exhibited the kind of stress behavior I’d just seen in Sam – agitation, avoidance, physical symptoms of anxiety – it usually indicated serious distress.
The kind that didn’t resolve itself with time or patience.