Chapter 10 #2
But just when it seems like Lane’s about to give in, he stops. Always with the same soft expression in his eyes, like it hurts him more than it hurts me.
It should make me feel safe.
Instead, it makes me restless, infuriated, and humiliatingly desperate.
I love kissing him. I really do. But it isn’t enough anymore. I need more than his mouth, more than the slow, tender restraint—because if he would just give in, if he would stop being so careful, maybe I wouldn’t have the space to think at all.
I never thought I’d be the one pushing for more. Practically begging. Wanting more than I should.
But it’s reckless and it’s exciting and it’s almost enough to drown out everything I’m pretending not to feel.
I throw on the flannel I borrowed from Lane over a tight, short black dress. It hangs loose off my shoulders, soft and worn, and smells like him—smoky sandalwood and soap.
I don’t know if the whole guys-like-it-when-girls-wear-their-clothes thing is scientifically proven, but I just like the way it feels.
Instead of the scuffed boots I’ve been trudging around in, I pull on my black velvet thigh-highs and a pair of sheer tights. Probably overkill for a small mountain-town restaurant, but this is our first date. And I want to look like someone worth breaking rules for.
When I open the door, Lane’s standing there with a small bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand—uneven, bent stems and clashing colors. Perfectly imperfect.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says, a little sheepish, like he’s second-guessing if this was too much. “So I grabbed all the ones that reminded me of you.”
My heart flutters. Actually flutters.
I take the flowers and smile up at him. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”
He nods and reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear—gentle and brief, but I feel it everywhere.
He walks me to the truck and waits until I’m inside before shutting the door and circling around. When he climbs in beside me, the familiar opening chords of a Sleep Token song start playing.
The song.
The one that was playing the first night we kissed.
Heat climbs my neck, flooding down to my chest. Blooming from the memory of his hands on me. I wonder if he remembers. If he chose it on purpose.
From the small, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth—I think he did.
This outfit was planned with that exact memory in mind. There is nothing about this dress that is going to cockblock me tonight.
Lane’s hand finds my thigh as he drives, thumb tracing slow circles over the sheer fabric.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and look out the window, but my body betrays me, leaning into his hand.
I want him to pull over. I want him to press me against the truck door and kiss me senseless.
But he doesn’t.
He keeps driving, calm and steady, like we have all the time in the world—and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
A long forty minutes later, he finally turns down a winding paver-stone driveway. The trees part to reveal a stone-and-cedar lodge with gleaming black windows reflecting the fading sunlight, like they’re holding onto the day just a little longer.
It’s stunning. Rustic and modern at the same time. Quiet. Private.
I glance over at Lane. He’s already watching me, smiling like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
“Where are we?” I ask as he pulls into a small lot off to the side.
He shifts into park and flashes that devastating smile.
“Stay right there,” he says, voice low and commanding.
Before I can reach for the handle, he’s there—pulling my door open and offering his hand. I take it without hesitation, grinning like an idiot. His fingers weave through mine as he leads me up the wide stone steps.
“You haven’t answered my question,” I say, looking up at him.
“What question?”
“Where are we?” I repeat, stepping through the door he holds open for me.
He just smiles again—mischievous and a little smug—as we approach the front desk.
“Welcome to Elk River Winery,” says a woman with sandy brown hair as she beams. “Do you have a reservation with us this evening?”
“Yes,” Lane answers. “Should be for two, under Hartford.”
I blink twice, and my gaze snaps to him.
He made a reservation?
“Right this way.” The woman smiles, gliding through a wide arched doorway.
Lane’s hand finds the small of my back, gently guiding me as we follow her.
The dining room is glowing. Candlelight spills off the linen tablecloths and tall glass vase centerpieces wrapped in antlers. A chandelier made entirely of antlers hangs overhead in the center of the room. It’s rustic and elegant, all at once.
I peek at Lane, my mouth parted in awe. He was already watching me, taking in my reaction, that same smile tugging at his lips.
The hostess leads us to a table by the window and Lane pulls a chair out for me. It’s not until the hostess slips away that I realize I’m still standing.
But when I try to move, I can’t.
I’m frozen in place, struck by the quiet realization that no one has ever put this level of care into a date before.
My chest tightens, and before I know it, a tear slides down my cheek.
Lane’s smile drops instantly.
He shoves the chair away and is beside me in a heartbeat, hands cradling my face. “Hey. Whoa. What’s wrong, love?”
Love. I don’t know when a single word started carrying this much weight.
I laugh through the tears, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’m happy.”
Before I can second-guess myself, I rise onto my toes and kiss him—a soft, grateful press of my lips to his. Because I don’t know how else to say thank you.
His hands tighten slightly, kissing me back, slow and reverent, before resting his forehead against mine.
The room blurs until it’s just me and him.
“Happy tears?” he whispers.
I nod, smiling through it. “I’m a crier. Sorry if that’s a dealbreaker.”
He laughs, low and easy. “Sadie, you could tell me you have a tail, and I still wouldn’t think that’s a dealbreaker. I can handle some tears.”
He kisses my forehead, gaze flicking between my eyes. “You’re okay?”
“I feel okay with you,” I whisper.
His fingers trail down my arms before he steps back and pulls out my chair.
This time, I sit.
Lane takes the opposite seat, grabbing the bottle of wine chilling in the ice bucket. He dramatically presents it to me, and I give him an exaggerated nod of approval.
He pours me a generous glass, then sets the bottle down without pouring one for himself. I give him a curious, questioning look, but he lifts his water glass and tilts it toward mine.
“To happy tears and first dates,” he says with a wink.
I grin, clinking my glass to his. “Cheers.”
Dinner is incredible. Perfectly cooked steak that practically melts in my mouth, paired with a smooth and rich red wine.
But it’s not just the food.
It’s Lane.
He doesn’t hide behind small talk—he asks real questions.
“Do you believe in fate?” he asks, just as I lift my forkful of green beans.
I pause, meeting his eyes. “Yeah, I think so.” I swallow. “Not in the everything-happens-for-a-reason way, but I believe there are forces out there. That certain things are meant to happen. Or certain people are meant to cross paths. Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts.”
He watches me closely, nodding once. “Yeah. Same.” Then—softly—he adds, “Do you miss home?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “No.”
It feels good to say it out loud. To be unapologetically honest.
We trade pieces of ourselves over dinner, passing questions back and forth. I even open up to him about my mom, about how much I miss her—and for the first time, it doesn’t hurt as much.
Somewhere between dessert menus and the check, I finally ask the question that’s been circling my head.
“Why don’t you drink?”
He swirls the melting ice in his water glass before taking a sip. “I’m drinking right now,” he says lightly.
“You know what I mean.”
He nods slowly, gaze falling to the table.
“I don’t like to talk about it,” he says, voice rough around the edges.
My heart twists.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Forget I even asked.”
But he shakes his head, reaching across the table and threading his fingers through mine, his thumb brushing slow circles against my skin.
“You deserve to know.”
I squeeze his hand to hopefully reassure him that whatever it is, it won’t change how I see him.
“I came here to get a fresh start,” he begins, voice low. “My dad’s…an alcoholic. A mean, violent drunk. Growing up, I tried my best to stay out of his way. Avoiding him was key to surviving. I wanted to leave, desperately, but I couldn’t leave my mom alone.
“On my twenty-first birthday, I went out with my friends and got hammered. Like, borderline blackout drunk. From what I remember, it was pretty bad.”
He exhales sharply.
“My friends sent me home in an Uber and when I got back, my dad was still up waiting on me, completely shit-faced, of course. He started rambling, not making any sense. I tried to ignore him, slipping past him to go to my room and sleep it off. But he kept pushing me, getting in my face and yelling that he and my mom were worried sick and I’m worthless, making my mom cry every night because of what a horrible son I am. ”
His voice hardens.
“Something in me snapped. Years of resentment and anger and fear just—boiled over. I lost control. I’d never felt rage like I did at that moment, and I unleashed it all on him.”
His throat bobs as he swallows.
“When it was over—and I saw what I’d done—it sobered me instantly.
I called 911 from his phone, packed a bag, left a note for my mom, and got on the next bus out.
” He pauses, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles again.
“Thirty-four hours later, I showed up here and asked Heath for a job. I still don’t know what made him say yes, but I’ll never stop being grateful that he did.
I promised him and myself I would never be like my dad. ”
I sit there, my heart breaking quietly in my chest for him, letting the silence settle heavily between us.
“And now I’m promising you,” he adds quietly.
I can barely breathe. “Thank you,” I say softly. “I’m glad fate brought you here.”
He squeezes my hand a little tighter, like letting go might unravel him completely.
Instead of filling the silence with words, I watch him. Memorizing the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, the quiet storm behind his eyes, the way he won’t quite meet my eyes—like distance is his safety net.
Like wanting something doesn’t mean believing you actually deserve it.
I don’t know how to tell him that this, him trusting me and letting me in, means more than he could ever know. That I’ve spent most of my life waiting for someone to meet me halfway.
When the check comes, he pays without hesitation. Then he stands, moving around the table to pull out my chair, offering his hand again.
I thread my fingers through his, like it’s the most natural thing I’ve ever done.
We step out into the cold summer night air, but I don’t feel the chill.
All I feel is him.
His hand brushes my waist as I climb into the truck. It’s barely a touch, but it sends sparks straight through me.
And for one suspended heartbeat, I almost tell him everything—that even though I’m scared, I want him anyway.
But I don’t.
When he shuts the door, the world goes still. It’s just me, my racing pulse, and the lingering ghost of his hand.
And for the first time in my life, I stop pretending.