Chapter 17
Blake
The second date ends with a kiss and a quiet promise of a third one.
Still, realistically, it ends with watching Lisa walk away while pretending I am the kind of man who calmly returns home after something like that instead of the kind of man who immediately starts thinking about how long it would be socially acceptable to wait before texting her again.
I make it almost thirty seconds. Then I text her.
ME: I think this counts as momentum.
Her reply comes faster than it should if she were trying to pretend she wasn’t thinking the same thing.
LISA: I think this counts as you not being subtle.
I smile to myself as I reach my car.
ME: Third date energy.
There’s a pause after that one. It’s long enough that I actually unlock the driver’s side door before my phone lights up again.
LISA: Are you busy right now?
I don’t even pretend to hesitate.
ME: No.
Another pause follows, even longer this time. As if she’s deciding something rather than reacting to something.
LISA: I don’t want the night to end.
I stare at the message longer than necessary before typing again.
ME: My place?
The typing bubble appears almost immediately, disappears, comes back again, and then…
LISA: Yes.
And just like that, the night isn’t over.
She looks different when she arrives than she did earlier outside the music venue.
She didn’t change anything about her appearance, but there’s something quieter in the way she steps through my doorway this time.
As if she already knows she’s not just stopping by for a polite visit and is still deciding what that means for both of us.
“You look like you’re thinking very hard,” I say as I close the door behind her.
“I am thinking very hard,” she admits without even pretending otherwise.
“Risky.”
“It is when you are involved,” she replies. Though the smile that follows softens the words enough that they feel more like teasing than accusation.
I step aside so she can walk further into the apartment, watching the way her eyes move across the room like she’s cataloging details, and it surprises me how much I want her to feel comfortable in this space, like it matters more than I expected that she doesn’t look like a guest.
“You live exactly how I expected you to live,” she says after a moment, turning back toward me.
“That sounds like it could go either way,” I reply carefully.
“It means you have good taste,” she says, glancing toward the shelves and the plants near the windows, “and entirely too many plants.”
“They’re alive,” I point out defensively.
“They’re thriving,” she corrects.
“I’m nurturing.”
“You’re competitive with greenery.”
“That’s also true,” I admit.
She laughs and sets her purse down on the counter. She looks like she already belongs here, which does something strange to my chest that I decide not to examine too closely.
“Wine?” I ask as I move toward the kitchen.
“Yes.”
“Beer?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“You’re not very good at this,” she says, watching me with obvious amusement.
“I’m excellent at this,” I correct. “I’m offering options.”
She studies me for a second like she’s deciding whether to argue with that logic or accept it.
“Wine,” she says finally.
“Excellent choice.”
“I agree.”
We settle onto the couch, not touching at first. She’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of her shoulder. A feeling that makes the space between us feel smaller than it actually is.
“So,” I say after a moment, “this counts as spontaneous.”
“This counts as dangerous,” she corrects quietly.
“For who?”
“For me.”
That gets my attention immediately.
“Why?”
She looks down at her glass like she’s deciding whether to answer honestly before she lifts her eyes back to mine.
“Because I like you,” she says simply.
The words land harder than I expect them to. It’s not because I didn’t know she liked me, but because hearing her say it out loud changes something about the air between us, and I can’t ignore it.
“I like you too,” I reply.
“I know,” she says softly.
She shifts slightly closer without seeming to realize she’s doing it. Her knee brushes mine in a way that feels deliberate, even if she doesn’t acknowledge it.
“With the risk of making this less romantic,” she says after a moment, “Gwen knows.”
“Knows what?” I ask.
“That we’re dating.”
I blink.
“Already?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling faintly. “She figured it out, and she promised she wouldn’t tell Zane.”
I lean back slightly, letting that information settle.
“That’s good,” I say.
“That’s temporary,” she replies immediately.
“Yes,” I agree.
Because we both know exactly what she means.
“We have to tell him,” she continues after a second. Her tone shifts slightly into something more serious.
“I know.”
“I just don’t know how.”
“Same,” I admit.
“Or when.”
“Same.”
She turns toward me a little more fully, studying my face like she’s trying to decide whether I’m as nervous about that conversation as she is.
“You’re not scared?” she asks.
“I’m terrified,” I answer honestly.
She laughs softly at that.
“That makes me feel better.”
“He’s my best friend,” I explain. “And you’re his sister. There’s no version of this conversation where he immediately says ‘great, love that for you guys.’”
“He might,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced.
“He won’t,” I reply.
She smiles.
“You’re probably right.”
She tucks one leg underneath herself on the couch like she’s settling. She looks like she isn’t preparing to leave anytime soon, which makes the moment feel less temporary in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“I don’t want him to feel like we hid it from him,” she says quietly.
“We didn’t,” I tell her. “We just didn’t tell him yet.”
“That sounds like hiding.”
“That sounds like timing,” I counter.
She studies me for a second before laughing softly.
“That’s a very hockey-player answer.”
“I am a hockey player.”
“Unfortunately,” she teases.
“We should tell him together,” I say after a moment.
Her head turns toward me immediately.
“Together?”
“Yes.”
“That’s scary.”
“It is.”
She laughs again, softer this time.
“I like the plan,” she admits. “I just don’t like how nervous it makes me.”
“I’ll be there,” I say simply.
She studies my face carefully, like she’s checking whether I mean that as much as it sounds like I do.
“I know,” she says quietly.
The room gets quieter after that. It doesn’t feel awkward so much as closer. It feels like something shifted between us without either of us needing to say anything else out loud.
She sets her glass down on the table without breaking eye contact.
“You’re being very calm about all of this,” she says.
“I’m not calm.”
“You look calm.”
“That’s because I’m focused.”
“On what?”
“On not messing this up.”
Her expression softens slightly when I say that, like she wasn’t expecting me to answer honestly.
“You’re not going to mess this up,” she says.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” she replies.
The certainty in her voice makes something settle inside my chest in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
She moves closer without saying anything else. Close enough that our knees touch fully now. Then our shoulders. Then her hand brushes mine like she meant it to.
“Blake,” she says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“You’re very distracting.”
“That’s intentional.”
“I figured.”
When I kiss her this time, it isn’t as careful as the way it was earlier.
It isn’t tentative the way it was the first time we kissed at all.
It’s something slower and deeper and steadier, like neither of us is pretending anymore that this is casual or temporary or something that might disappear if we don’t look at it too closely.
Her hand slides up my shoulder and into my hair in a way that makes me laugh softly against her mouth before pulling her closer, because apparently, restraint stopped being part of the plan the moment she said she liked me out loud.
“You’re trouble,” she whispers.
“I’ve been telling you that.”
“You’re worse than I thought.”
She smiles against my cheek before kissing me again, slower this time, like she’s not in a hurry to end the moment any more than I am.
“So,” I say quietly.
“So,” she echoes.
“Fourth date?”
She smiles.
“Yes.”