Chapter Three
Nora
The bell at the café entrance rings, and I just know it’s him.
Asher…
My fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the tray as I steady myself. I force my attention to stay on the table I’m heading to, but it’s useless. I can feel him. Even from across the room, I feel it.
That pull. That same invisible thread that’s been there since the beginning. Only now, it feels…tighter. By the time I turn back toward the counter, he’s already there. Waiting.
“Hi,” I say, hoping my voice sounds more normal than I feel.
“It’s busy,” he replies, his gaze flicking briefly around the café before settling back on me.
“A little,” I admit. “Mornings usually are.”
There’s a pause, like he’s considering something, then, “When do you get off?”
The question catches me off guard. I blink. “Um…six.”
He nods once, like that confirms something for him. “I’ll be here to pick you up.”
My heart stumbles. “Pick me up?”
“For dinner,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Tonight.”
For a second, I just stare at him. Because this wasn’t what I expected.
Almost an hour ago, he’d come in as usual, but it wasn’t like before.
He was distracted, distant, like something else had his attention.
I spent the minutes after his exit overthinking it.
Replaying everything, wondering if maybe Debby was right.
If maybe I’d imagined something that wasn’t really there.
And now…
“You want to take me out?” I ask, just to be sure I heard him right.
“Yes.” Simple. Direct.
I swallow, suddenly very aware of Fred watching from somewhere behind me. He is probably listening to every word. Still, it didn’t stop the warmth blooming in my chest.
“Okay,” I say before I can talk myself out of it.
His expression shifts to a warm smile. “Six,” he says. “Be ready.”
“I will.”
Another pause lingers between us, softer than before but not awkward. Then he nods once and steps back. And just like that, he leaves again. I stand there for a second longer than I should, staring after him. My heart is doing something strange and fluttery in my chest.
“Well,” Freddie’s voice cuts in beside me, full of barely contained excitement. “How do you feel?”
I let out a breath, shaking my head slightly as I turn back to the counter. “I didn’t expect that.”
“No kidding,” he says. “Mysterious brooding man goes from intense staring to asking you out like it’s a done deal? I love this for you.”
“I don’t even know him,” I mumble, though the words feel weaker now.
“You’re about to,” Freddie replies easily.
That thought settles somewhere deep. Equal parts exciting and terrifying. Because Freddie’s right. And I don’t know why, but it feels like something important.
The rest of my shift drags and flies by at the same time. Every minute feels stretched with anticipation. My mind wanders back to him, to tonight, to what this means. I catch myself smiling at nothing and everything. By the time my shift ends, I feel like I’ve been holding my breath all day.
By six, I’m ready. Or at least, as ready as I can be.
Freddie covered the last twenty minutes of my shift so I could slip into the break room and change—I'd shoved a dress into my bag this morning, never guessing I’d actually need to put it on.
It's nothing fancy, just soft cotton that skims my knees, but it's not the uniform, and somehow that makes it feel like a lot.
I smoothed it down about a dozen times in front of the mirror, my stomach doing that fluttering thing it hasn't stopped doing all day.
I step outside the café, scanning the street. And it only takes a second to find him. He’s leaning against a dark car, arms crossed loosely. He looks even more mysterious in dark jeans and a black leather jacket.
My steps slow just slightly as I walk toward him, my heart picking up again.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says as I get closer.
I feel my cheeks go hot under his stare as I smile. “Hey.”
“You ready to go?” he asks in a calm, confident tone that wraps around me.
I nod in response. He smiles warmly, then he opens the passenger door for me without another word. His cologne hits my nostrils as I slide into the seat. My pulse quickens, and my stomach clenches. The feeling is weird, warm, and delicious all at once.
The drive is quiet at first, but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that feels full instead of empty. I glance at him once, then again, trying not to be obvious about it. The air is thick and charged. It’s starting to affect my breathing while he looks unruffled.
His composure only pulls me further under.
I clear my throat. “So…where are we going?” I ask finally, breaking the charged silence.
“You’ll see,” he replies, glancing at me with a small smile tipping his lips.
“That sounds suspicious,” I say lightly, though there’s no real fear behind it.
His lips twitch slightly. “You nervous?”
“A little,” I admit, then quickly add, “But not in a bad way.”
“Good,” he says simply.
I lean back into the seat, letting the quiet return. It doesn’t take long before the car slows, then turns onto a street I don’t immediately recognize. A few seconds later, he parks in front of a building.
I blink, looking up at it. “This isn’t a restaurant.”
“No,” he agrees, already unbuckling his seatbelt.
I hesitate, something flickering in my chest. “Asher, where are we?”
“Wilder House,” he says. “I live here.”
“Oh…you brought me to your apartment on our first date?” I ask, confused.
A small knot tightens under my ribs. I barely know him, having only waited on him for a few weeks and spoken more than a few words for what—two days?
I don’t actually know anything about him.
Where he’s from, who he is when the door closes.
My hand finds the strap of my bag and holds it.
“I—I didn’t think we were going somewhere private.
I don’t really know you, Asher. Not really. ”
Something in his face shifts—not offended, just careful. He doesn’t reach for me. He gives me the space, lets the pause sit. “You’re right,” he says. “You don’t.” He says it plainly, like he respects the fear more than he wants to argue it away.
“Come on,” he says, stepping out of the car and walking around to my side.
He opens the door for me again, waiting. “I won’t push you. If you want me to drive you home right now, I will—no questions. But if you stay, it’s a homemade dinner. That’s all. Text your friends the address and my apartment number. Send them a photo of me if it makes you feel safer.”
I look at him for a long moment. He doesn’t fill the silence. And maybe that’s the thing that settles me—he isn’t rushing me.
“Okay,” I say, the knot loosening. I pull out my phone and text Freddie the address, then slip it back in my pocket. “Now that you say it, I kind of like the idea of home cooking.”
“Then you’re in for a treat,” he says.
The building is simple, clean, and quiet in a way that I like. We walk up a set of stairs, the sound of our footsteps echoing softly in the space. Seconds later, he’s unlocking a door and stepping aside to let me in first.
I step inside. His apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined at the same time. Minimal. Clean. Almost bare, like he hasn’t been here long or doesn’t plan to stay. There’s a couch, a small table, a kitchen that looks like it actually gets used. No clutter. No personal touches.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, closing the door behind us.
I nod, setting my bag down carefully as I take a few steps further inside, my eyes taking everything in. “It’s nice,” I say, even though that’s not quite the right word.
“It’s quiet,” he replies, like that matters more.
“That’s a good thing?”
“For me, yeah,” he says simply.
He moves past me into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves slightly as he starts pulling things out like he’s done this a hundred times before.
“Are you going to cook now?” I ask, a little surprised.
“Yeah.” He glances up and smiles, “Not everything. The main dish is ready and simmering.”
“When did you learn to cook?” I ask, fascinated.
He doesn’t look up right away. “Had to. When you grow up in other people’s houses, you learn fast that a kid who can feed himself is a kid who’s less trouble.
” He says it lightly, like it’s nothing, but there’s an old edge under it.
“Bounced around foster homes most of my childhood. Some places, if you didn’t figure out the kitchen, you didn’t eat. ”
Something in my chest pulls tight. “That sounds lonely,” I say quietly.
He shrugs, still working. “It was what it was.” Then, after a moment, softer, like he didn’t plan to say it: “There was one house. A woman named Ruth. I was maybe ten. Only stayed a few months before they moved me again, but she used to let me stand on a chair next to her at the stove. Taught me how to actually cook instead of just survive.” A faint, almost-gone smile. “First time anybody bothered.”
I don’t say anything for a second, just watch him. It’s the most he’s offered about himself, and I get the sense it cost him something.
“What about after?” I ask. “You said the military.”
“Aged out of foster care at eighteen. Enlisted the same year—it was the closest thing to a home that’d take me.
” He sets the knife down and meets my eyes briefly.
“I was good at it. Better than good. They put a rifle in my hands, and it turned out I had a steady enough aim to matter.” He says it plainly, no pride in it, just fact. “Did that for a long time.”
I move closer, leaning lightly against the counter as I watch him work. I’m fascinated by how easily he moves in the space. How natural it looks despite everything else about him feeling so controlled. “So what are you making?”
“You’ll see,” he says again.
I laugh softly. “You like saying that.”
“It works.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “You’re very mysterious.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
“Do you ever just answer a question directly?”
He glances at me again, something almost teasing in his eyes. “Sometimes.”
“Good to know,” I murmur.