Chapter 7 #2
The dress they've chosen is deep blue, fitted but not clingy, hitting just above the knee. Simple but stunning. Light makeup—enough to look polished without feeling like I'm wearing a mask.
When I finally look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I look confident. Beautiful. Like someone who deserves a man like Adam Lane.
Maya sniffles behind me. I turn to find her wiping her eyes.
"Are you crying?"
"Pregnancy hormones," she insists—but she's smiling. "He's going to die when he sees you."
Harper nods approvingly. "My brother's a lucky man."
I smooth my hands down the dress, nerves and excitement tangling in my stomach. "What if I mess this up?"
"You won't," they say in unison.
I wish I believed them.
Harper's working a curling iron through the ends of my hair when Maya asks, too casually, "So... have you told Adam?"
I watch her in the mirror. "Told him what?"
Maya and Harper exchange one of those looks—the kind that says they've already discussed this without me.
"About... you know." Maya waves a hand vaguely. "Your experience level."
It takes me a second. Then it clicks, and my face flames. "That I'm a virgin? Why would I—We're just going to dinner!"
Harper sets down the curling iron. "June, it's obvious where this is heading. And Adam should know. Not because there's anything wrong with it, but because he'll want to make sure everything is perfect for you."
My stomach flips. The thought of that conversation alone is terrifying. "What if he thinks I'm weird? A twenty-nine-year-old virgin?"
"He won't." Maya's voice is firm. "And if he does, he's not worth it. But he won't."
I drop my gaze to my hands, twisting in my lap. This is the part I never talk about—the part that makes me feel broken and behind and fundamentally less than. "I've just never felt ready before. Never felt safe enough. But with Adam..."
"You feel safe," Harper finishes softly.
"Yeah." The word comes out small. "And excited. And terrified."
Harper catches my eyes in the mirror. "My brother's a good man, June. He'll take care of you. Emotionally and... otherwise." She pauses, wrinkling her nose. "Not that I want to think about that. Gross."
Despite my nerves, I laugh. "Please don't give me sex advice about your brother."
"I'm just saying—the Lane family has good genes—"
"HARPER."
Maya dissolves into giggles and the tension breaks. But the conversation has planted a seed I can't ignore. I'll need to tell Adam eventually.
What if he's disappointed by my inexperience? What if he expects someone confident, someone who knows exactly what she's doing?
But what if he's not disappointed? What if he takes his time—cherishes it, makes it everything I've ever imagined it could be?
Heat blooms low in my stomach at the thought. Not nerves. Want. I think about Adam's hands on my waist, his mouth on mine, the barely restrained hunger in his kiss. The way he touched me like I was something worth being careful with.
"Earth to June." Maya waves a hand in front of my face. "Still with us?"
I blink back to the present. "Sorry. Just... thinking."
Harper grins, looking far too pleased with herself. "About my brother?"
"Shut up."
She laughs, but her eyes are warm. "It's going to be okay, June. Better than okay. You deserve this. You deserve him."
I want to believe her. I'm trying.
Maya squeezes my shoulder. "When you're ready, tell him. Communication is everything. But tonight? Just have fun. Let yourself enjoy it."
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. They're right. I know they're right.
But that doesn't stop my hands from shaking as I check the time.
Twenty minutes until Adam arrives.
Twenty minutes until everything changes.
By 7:45, I'm alone.
Harper left to babysit Emma, Maya went home to put her swollen feet up, and I'm sitting on my couch in my beautiful blue dress, trying very hard not to wrinkle it or sweat through it or spontaneously combust from nerves.
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror for the third time in ten minutes. Makeup still good. Hair still behaving. Dress still perfect. The lacy lingerie beneath feels like a secret—something just for me, a reminder that I'm choosing this. Whatever this becomes.
I spritz on perfume—something floral and light Maya left on my counter—and take a deep breath.
This is Adam. Adam who showed up at my bakery this morning without hesitation. Adam who texts me good morning and asks about my day. Adam who looks at me like I'm the best thing he's ever seen. Adam who kissed me last night like he'd been starving for it.
I'm safe with him.
But my hands are still shaking.
What if conversation lags? What if I spill food on myself? What if he realizes halfway through dinner that I'm not interesting enough, not experienced enough, not enough?
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the spiral before it takes root. Harper's voice echoes. You deserve this. You deserve him.
I want to believe her.
I check my phone. Pace to the window, then back to the couch. Sit. Stand. Smooth my dress. Check my lipstick. Wonder if I should have worn different shoes. Wonder if—
A knock at the door.
My heart leaps into my throat. For a second I can't move. Can't breathe. This is it. This is happening.
One more deep breath. I smooth my dress, square my shoulders, and cross to the door.
I can do this.
I open it.
Adam's standing on my porch in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that should be illegal.
His hair is slightly damp, like he showered not long ago, and he's holding a bouquet of sunflowers—bright and cheerful and so perfectly thoughtful it makes my chest ache.
His eyes widen when he sees me. He does a slow sweep from head to toe, and the look on his face—awed and hungry all at once—makes every second of preparation worth it.
"June." My name comes out rough. "You're stunning."
I'm already blushing. "You clean up pretty nice yourself."
He steps closer, offering the flowers with a slightly sheepish smile. "These are for you. Harper said sunflowers."
The fact that he asked—that he cared enough to ask—makes my throat tight. "They're perfect. Thank you."
I take them inside to put in water, hyperaware of him watching me move through my own space. When I turn back, he's closer than I expected, filling my small entryway with his presence.
"Before we go." His voice is low, serious. "I need to say something."
My stomach drops. Is he canceling? Having second thoughts? Realizing this was a mistake?
But then his expression softens, and there's heat in his eyes. "I've been thinking about kissing you again all day. And I don't want to wait until the end of the night." He searches my face. "Can I kiss you now? Before we go?"
Relief and want flood through me all at once.
"Yes," I breathe. "Please."
Adam steps into my space, one hand cupping my face, the other settling on my waist. He pauses—giving me one last chance to change my mind—his eyes searching mine.
I answer by leaning in, my hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the soft cotton of his shirt.
Then he lowers his head, and his lips meet mine.
The first touch is gentle, almost tentative—like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth, learning the taste of me. But I don't want gentle right now. I press closer, and something shifts. The kiss deepens, his mouth moving against mine with purpose, coaxing me to open for him.
When I do, the kiss turns hungry.
His tongue sweeps against mine—exploring, claiming—and I make a small sound, surprise and pleasure tangled together. Adam groans in response, the hand on my waist tightening, pulling me flush against him until there's no space left between us.
I can feel the solid wall of his chest, the heat radiating off him, the barely restrained control in the way he holds me. Like he wants to devour me but he's forcing himself to go slow.
The kiss is everything. Tender and passionate. Giving and demanding. The kind that rewrites what I thought kissing could be.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Adam rests his forehead against mine, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my hip.
"I've been waiting all day for that," I manage, voice shaky.
His laugh is low, breathless. "Me too. But now I just want to keep kissing you and forget about dinner entirely."
"We have reservations," I remind him—though the temptation to cancel is overwhelming. To pull him down onto my couch and spend the rest of the night exactly like this.
"Right. Reservations. Food." He doesn't move, his hand still on my waist, eyes dark with want. "June, you're incredible."
Before I can respond, he kisses me again—quick and sweet, like he can't help himself. Then he steps back, putting deliberate distance between us.
"We should go," he says, voice still rough, "before I forget I'm supposed to be a gentleman."