Chapter 38
Luke
Luke stood in front of the bathroom mirror in his dress uniform, doing up the buttons of his shirt.
Same mirror. Same routine. Same careful choreography he'd performed a thousand times before duty, before court, before town events where everyone expected Officer Bennett to look exactly like this.
Precise. Polished. Predictable.
The tie slid into place.
Today was going to be different.
Grace Hart, would you do me the honor of accepting my dinner invitation?
He winced. Too stiff. Sounded like he was about to serve her paperwork.
Grace, would you maybe want to go out sometime?
Absolutely not. He didn't sound like he even wanted her to say yes.
I'm in love with you, Grace.
Sure, if he wanted to scare her off.
He was going to have to save that revelation for the second or third date. Like a normal person.
Luke stared at his reflection.
Crisp uniform. Polished badge. Officer Bennett.
The town's golden boy. His parents' pride. The careful son who never embarrassed the family, never stepped out of line.
He was about to detonate all of it.
The thought sent a sharp, electric thrill through his chest.
On the counter beside him lay the sash. FESTIVAL MARSHAL stitched across gold fabric.
Grace had asked him to the festival, curled against him in bed. Soft. Vulnerable. Brave.
And he'd said no.
Had told her people would talk. Acted like being seen with her would be something shameful.
Luke's grip tightened on the sash.
She'd been brave enough to ask.
And he'd humiliated her for it.
Luke slipped the sash over his shoulder, the fabric settling diagonally across his chest. Bright. Impossible to miss.
The festival marshal. Center stage. Every eye in Crystal Lake watching.
Grace had wanted to walk through the festival with him. Just walk. Hold hands maybe. Be together where people could see.
He'd told her no because he was afraid of what people would say.
Now he was going to stand in front of the entire town—in this uniform, wearing this sash, with a microphone in his hand—and ask her to dinner.
The difference was: she'd asked in private, in the safety of her bedroom, when rejection would only hurt her.
He was going to ask in public. In front of everyone.
She'd risked her pride for him.
Now it was his turn.
He straightened his tie one last time. Took in the dress uniform, pressed and sharp. The sash that cut across his chest. He looked like the facade he’d spent his life molding himself into.
But he'd never felt more like himself.
The town had demanded so much from him his entire life. Be respectable. Be appropriate. Be careful. Be a credit to the name.
Grace had demanded nothing.
She'd asked once—bravely, so fucking bravely—and when he'd said no, she hadn't argued. She hadn't begged.
She'd walked away.
She had standards. She had self-respect. She'd walked away when he failed to meet them.
And Luke was going to spend the rest of his life regretting that. And proving to her that that he’d changed.
He picked up his keys.
Luke was going to choose her.
In front of everyone.
And if she said no—if she told him it was too late, that he'd hurt her too badly, that she didn't want him anymore—
He'd deserve it.
But he had to ask.
He had to be as brave as she'd been.
Luke checked his watch.
Time to go get his girl.
Or humiliate himself trying.
Volunteers were still making last-minute adjustments—straightening bunting, shifting hay bales, checking extension cords. The air smelled like kettle corn and cider and something fried he couldn’t quite place. The crowd was steadily growing, kids darting everywhere.
Orange lights hung slack between the lampposts, unlit but catching the autumn sun as they waited for nightfall. Someone was testing the sound system—a crackle, then silence.
Luke scanned faces as he walked.
How many times had he done this—paced these same streets, telling himself he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, just doing his job, just passing through?
He’d been looking for her. He could admit that to himself now. His eyes had paused on every similar silhouette, every woman with dark hair.
God, he’d been stupid. He’d spent months pretending he wasn’t hoping to catch sight of Grace Hart when she was all he wanted to see.
He was done pretending to himself.
When he saw her, she took his breath away.
Grace stood at the school booth, a folding table half-covered in paint palettes and cups of water. She wore jeans and boots and a soft cardigan, sleeves pushed up. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders.
He wanted to weave his hands into that hair. He wanted to pull her tight against his body. He wanted to sling his arm over her shoulder. He wanted.
She was talking to Mrs. Ellery. Laughing.
Luke stopped walking.
She was beautiful.
Not just because of her face or her body. It was more than that. Deeper than that. She was beautiful because she was Grace.
He wanted her.
Not just in the way men wanted women. Not just in the way he’d had her. He felt greedy for her.
He didn’t just want her nights. He wanted her mornings and her evenings and her Tuesdays and Saturdays.
And every moment in between. Wanted to stand beside her while she did ordinary things.
He wanted the quiet intimacy of knowing where she’d put the extra batteries or which mug she reached for first.
He’d had private midnights.
He wanted public afternoons.
Grace glanced up.
Their eyes met across the festival grounds.
For a split second, she smiled at him—surprised and warm, the reflexive recognition her body for his.
He saw the moment that she remembered. When her heart protected itself. Her smile dimmed into something polite instead. Careful.
She dipped her head in a small nod. Acknowledged him the way she might acknowledge any officer making his rounds.
Anger flared sharp and immediate—but it wasn’t aimed at her.
Idiot. He’d been an idiot.
She didn’t expect anything from him. Not here. Not in public. Because she’d learned not to.
He’d taught her that.
Luke took a step toward her, before a hand closed around his elbow.
“Marshal?”
He turned to find Eleanor Matthews smiling up at him.
“They’re ready for you at the gazebo,” she said.
Luke glanced back at Grace.
She was no longer looking at him.
His jaw tightened.
“Yeah,” he said, voice steady even as something in his chest cracked open. “I’m coming.”
He let himself be steered away, boots carrying him toward the stage.
But his eyes kept drifting back.
Because he knew exactly what he stood to lose.
And exactly what he had to fix.