Chapter 6
The Pickup
Andi
I'd changed my outfit four times. Maybe five. I'd lost count somewhere between the green dress that made me look like I was trying too hard, the black one that made me look like I was going to a funeral, and the one that screamed girls’ night out at the club.
My bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off in a department store. Clothes covered every surface—draped over the chair, piled on the bed, scattered across the floor. My bras were everywhere. One was hanging off my lamp. How did that even happen?
I stood in front of my mirror in the dark green dress I'd worn for approximately three minutes before deciding it showed too much cleavage. One down, two choices to go.
"Get it together, Doyle," I muttered to my reflection.
My phone buzzed on the dresser.
Gavin: Heading your way soon. Might be a few minutes late.
My heart did something stupid in my chest. He was actually coming. This was actually happening.
Andi: Sounds good! :)
I stared at the smiley face. Too eager? Not eager enough? Did I seem desperate?
My phone buzzed again. Bridget.
Bridget: How much of a meltdown are we having?
Andi: I hate you.
Bridget: Go with the green dress. You look great in it. Stop overthinking.
I literally looked around. Was she here? What the hell?
Andi: How did you know I was wearing the green dress?
Bridget: Don’t question my powers. Plus, it’s your go-to starting point when you’re nervous.
Bridget: You always second-guess your way out of it. Wear it. You’re hot in it. And you deserve to feel your hottest! Leave it on. Go. Have fun. Stop texting me.
**Andi: **Hey! You texted me first!
**Bridget: **Potato, Potahto. Go finish getting ready. Be the hottie I know you are.
I looked down at myself. She was right. The green dress it was.
I checked my makeup for the fiftieth time. Not too much. Not too little. Hair down. Hair up? Down. Definitely down. Wait—
The doorbell rang.
Oh God. He was here.
I grabbed my jacket, checked my reflection one more time, and immediately regretted everything about my entire life. Too late now.
I opened the door.
Gavin stood there in a dark button-down that made his eyes look impossibly blue, jeans that fit just right, and a smile that made my brain completely flatline.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi." Brilliant, Andi. Genius.
"You look beautiful."
My face went hot. "Thanks. You clean up pretty good yourself." Oh God, why did I say it like that? "I mean—you look great. Really great. Not that you didn't look great at the game, but—"
He laughed, cutting off my spiral. "Thank you. Ready?"
"Yeah. Let me just—" I grabbed my purse, checked I had my keys, my phone, my wallet. Everything I needed to not be a complete disaster.
We headed down the stairs, and I was hyperaware of everything. How close he was. How good he smelled—something clean and woodsy that made me want to lean closer. How his hand almost brushed mine as we walked.
"The restaurant has valet, so I thought we’d drive," he said, opening the passenger door for me.
I slid in, trying not to think about how the last guy I'd dated made me meet him at the restaurant because he "didn't want to lose his street-parking spot." Or how Gavin opening my door felt like something out of another era.
He got in the driver's side, and suddenly the car felt very small. Very intimate. I could feel the heat from his body, smell his cologne, and see the way his hands gripped the steering wheel.
"So," he said as he pulled out into traffic. "How was your day?"
"Good. Busy. Friday's always crazy at the shop." I tucked my hair behind my ear, a nervous habit I couldn't break. "One of my regulars came in and ordered six different drinks because she couldn't decide what she wanted. Marcus nearly lost his mind."
"Six drinks?"
"She took sips of each one and then picked her favorite. Left the other five. I mean, she paid for all of them, so I wasn’t broken up about it, but Marcus was pissed since it caused a bit of a backup on the line."
Gavin laughed. "It sounds like you have a good guy working for you."
"He's insufferable. But yeah, he's great. Has a lot of energy and works as a tattoo artist, too. I’m not nearly as cool as he is." I laughed. "His new girlfriend is tattooed from neck to toe. They’re adorable together, and I hope this one lasts."
We drove through the streets, the city alive around us. I tried to focus on the conversation, on acting normal, but my brain kept short-circuiting. He'd asked me out. He was driving me to dinner. This was a real, actual date.
"You okay?" he asked, glancing over at me.
"Yeah. Just—nervous, I guess."
"Me too."
"You don't look nervous."
"I'm good at faking it." He smiled. "Though I did change my shirt three times."
"Only three? Amateur."
He laughed again, and I felt something in my chest loosen. This was okay. More than okay.
The drive to the North End was easy—but I felt the heat get to me as I started to realize how aware I was of everything. The way he drove with one hand on the wheel. How he turned his head to look at me when I talked. The way the streetlights caught in his eyes.
We pulled up to the restaurant, and a valet appeared. Gavin handed over his keys as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"This place is fancy," I said as we walked toward the entrance.
"Is that okay?"
"Yeah. Just—I usually eat at places where the menu's laminated and you have to ask for the bathroom key."
He held the door for me. "Best burgers in places like that."
The restaurant was beautiful. Dim lighting, white tablecloths, the smell of garlic and wine, and fresh bread. The kind of place that probably charged fifteen dollars for a salad.
The hostess smiled at us. "Reservation?"
"Byrne. Seven o'clock."
"Right this way."
She led us through the dining room to a corner table. Intimate. Romantic. The kind of table where you couldn't avoid looking at each other.
Gavin pulled out my chair. I sat, trying not to think about how every guy I'd dated before would've let me pull out my own chair. Or how I was probably reading way too much into basic manners.
He sat across from me, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
"This is perfect," I said, looking around. "How'd you find it?"
"Client recommended it. Said it's where he takes his wife when he screws up."
"So it's an apology restaurant?"
"Apparently." I saw the flush hit his cheeks as he looked around. "Maybe I picked wrong."
I laughed, and his eyes widened. God, his eyes were beautiful. "Don’t stress. I think it’s great."
The waiter appeared with menus and a wine list. Gavin ordered a bottle of red without even looking at the price, which made me both impressed and a little nervous. This was definitely fancier than my usual speed.
When the waiter left, Gavin looked at me across the candlelight. "So. I’m really glad we’re doing this."
"Me too." My heart was doing that stupid thing again. "Really glad."
"Me too."
The waiter returned with the wine, poured two glasses, and disappeared. I took a sip, grateful for something to do with my hands.
"How was your week?" Gavin asked.
"Busy. Good busy, though. One of my regulars is getting married next month, and she asked me to cater coffee and pastries for her rehearsal dinner."
"That's exciting."
"Terrifying, mostly." I laughed. "It's my first big catering gig. I really don't want to screw it up."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you care about it. That's half the battle."
I took another sip of wine, feeling some of the nerves ease. "It's a good opportunity. If it goes well, it could mean more business. Get the Grind's name out there."
"So why coffee?" he asked. "Why that shop specifically?"
I set my glass down, gathering my thoughts.
"My grandmother left me some money when she died.
Not a fortune, but enough for a down payment.
I'd been working at chain coffee places since high school—learned the business, worked my way up to management.
Then the owners of the Grind decided to retire, and I just.. . took the chance."
"That's brave."
"That's terrifying." I laughed. "Everyone told me I was crazy. My parents still think I've lost my mind. They want me settled down with a husband and kids, not pouring my life into a coffee shop."
"What do you want?"
The question caught me off guard. "I—someday, maybe. The whole family thing. But not yet. I want to prove to myself I can do this first. That I can make the Grind work."
"And if you do? Then what?"
"I don't know. I guess I'll figure it out when I get there." I felt myself getting defensive, as I always did when people questioned my choices. "Having all the answers seems boring, anyway."
Our appetizers arrived, saving me from my own awkwardness. I focused on the food, grateful for the break.
"What about you?" I asked when the waiter left. "Why architecture?"
"Honestly? I was good at math, decent at science. Architecture seemed like a solid career."
"Do you love it?"
"I'm good at it." He paused. "I'm successful."
"That's not what I asked."
He went quiet, swirling his wine. I watched the red liquid coat the sides of the glass, waiting.
"I used to," he finally said. "At the start, every project felt new. Exciting. A chance to create something that would last. But now it's just deadlines and budgets and Zoom calls."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But that's life. That's parenthood. You sacrifice for your kids."
"There's nothing wrong with wanting more, though," I said softly. "Wanting stability for Charisse doesn't mean you can't want something for yourself too."
His expression shifted—something vulnerable flickered across his face before he looked away. "It’s true. Feels a bit deep for tonight. Maybe we should change the subject?"
"Sure." I paused, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down. Time to lighten things up. "How about twenty questions? Truth or dare?"
His eyes went wide. Then he laughed—loud and genuine. "I feel like we need a different setting for that game. There's a pub down the street. More casual. Less..." He gestured at the white tablecloth and candlelight.
Relief flooded through me. "Yes. Please. Let's do it."