Lila
Hampton, Virginia
I take a steadying breath, smoothing my hands over the soft satin of my dress for what feels like the hundredth time.
The emerald green catches the light as I shift, the fabric hugging my waist before flaring out just enough to feel elegant without being too much.
I exhale slowly, trying to calm the restless energy in my chest.
Logan didn’t tell me where we’re going, and the uncertainty knots my stomach. Am I overdressed? I hesitate, reaching for my phone to ask him.
A knock at the door stops me.
He’s here.
My pulse stutters. I saw him a few hours ago, but something about this moment makes it feel like we’re meeting for the first time all over again.
I take another breath, then open the door.
Logan stands on my doorstep, looking effortlessly put together in a black sport coat over a soft black shirt.
His khaki pants are tailored perfectly, and the scuffed brown leather boots add a rugged edge that somehow makes him even more unfairly attractive.
But it’s the bouquet in his hand that steals my breath—pale pink ranunculus.
“Hi,” he says, his voice softer than I expected. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering, like he’s trying to take in every detail. “Wow. Lila, you look…” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “You look amazing.”
The way he says it—like it slips out before he can stop himself—sends a shiver through me.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice barely above a breath. “You do, too.”
He gives me a small, hesitant smile. “These are for you.” He holds out the flowers.
I take them carefully, my fingers brushing his for the briefest second. “They’re beautiful,” I say softly, feeling my cheeks warm. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice is quiet, like the air between us has thinned, fragile in a way that neither of us wants to disturb.
I glance down at the bouquet, fidgeting with the petals just to give my hands something to do. “Give me one second to put these in water,” I say, stepping back to let him inside.
He follows me in, looking around my small living room with a polite curiosity.
The room is basking in natural light from all the windows.
The plantation shutters open letting the setting sun paint everything in warm hues.
The ceilings are high and the original owner—my home is about a hundred years old—elevated the room beautifully with elaborate crown molding.
A plush brown leather sectional takes up most of the living room, an olive-green knitted blanket and a couple of matching pillows complete the look.
It’s flanked on both sides by antique wooden end tables.
An oversized matching ottoman sits centered in front of the sofa atop a moody floral Oriental rug.
A large TV is mounted to the wall above a beautifully trimmed-out fireplace. “I like your house,” he says.
“Thanks,” I reply from the recently refinished galley kitchen, grabbing a vase from the cabinet above the fridge and filling it with water. “I bought it two years ago. I’ve been renovating little by little.” I hear his boots on the wood floor as he walks around the corner toward me.
I fill the vase, setting the flowers inside, but I can feel him watching me. When I turn back, he’s standing there, hands in his pockets, studying me like he’s searching for something familiar in the space between us.
“Ready?” he asks. His voice is gentle, careful.
I nod, tucking my clutch under my arm. “Ready.”
Logan’s truck is parked in my driveway, a black Chevy Colorado ZR2. He leads me to the passenger side, opening the door for me. His hand brushes my lower back as I climb in, light and fleeting, but enough to send a small current through me. It’s such a simple gesture, but it feels protective.
As he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, I steal a glance at him. His hands rest easily on the wheel, his expression composed, but there’s something in the way his fingers flex against the leather that makes me think he’s just as nervous as I am.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
He glances at me, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Nope. It’s a surprise.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
“Not at all,” he says, teasing. “I’m pretty sure you’ll like it. And if you don’t…” He pauses, his grin widening. “Well, I’ll just have to try harder next time.”
Next time.
I can’t stop my smile.
“Confident, are you?” I hope he doesn’t hear the slight breathlessness in my voice.
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Maybe a little.” Then, more softly, “But I figure, worst case? I still get to spend the evening with you. So it’s a win either way.”