Chapter 19
Greyson
I’m wearing slightly more respectable jeans and a newer flannel when I go to pick Clara up from Kelly’s place.
Not a suit.
I don’t own one that fits anymore.
But I’m clean.
My jeans are fitted.
The flannel intentional.
The truth is this woman has me so far out of my comfort zone I don’t know what the hell I’m doing—but honestly?
I don’t hate it.
I park, kill the engine, and sit there for a second, staring at the front door like it might bite me.
Then it opens.
And I forget how to breathe.
She’s not wearing yellow. That registers, and I bite back my grin.
I see you, Trouble.
She’s wearing a navy dress—soft and flowing—with tiny green and white flowers scattered across it like they’re dancing.
It hugs her in all the right places before skimming down over her curves in a way that’s elegant without trying too hard.
And her hair.
Dark, glossy curls spill down her back in big, soft waves. Her hazel eyes are lined in charcoal, lashes thick and unfairly long.
And that mouth—Christ.
I already know how her lips feel.
I know how she tastes.
I know the sound she makes when she sighs into my mouth.
It’s been a week.
It feels like a year.
“Hi,” she says softly, smiling like she’s nervous too.
“Hi,” I manage.
I clear my throat.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, because I’m not going to play games tonight.
Besides, I mean it.
Her cheeks flush slightly. “Thank you.”
I hold out the sunflower.
It’s simple.
Corny.
Old-school as hell.
But it felt right.
“I got this for you,” I say.
Her eyes widen just a little before she takes it carefully, like it’s fragile.
She lifts it to her nose and smiles as she inhales.
“Thank you,” she says. “I love sunflowers.”
“I figured,” I reply, grinning. “Otherwise, why would you get one tattooed on your sweet body?”
Her head snaps up. “You saw that?”
“Yeah, Trouble,” I say quietly. “I saw that.”
Her lips curve, and something warm settles low in my chest.
She runs inside to put it in water, and I take a steadying breath.
Tonight is about doing this right.
No rushing.
No hiding.
When she comes back out, I offer her my arm without thinking.
She hesitates only a second before slipping her hand through it.
And just like that, we’re walking to the truck like two people who know what a date is supposed to feel like.
The Neapolitan place in town doesn’t look like much from the outside.
Brick. Simple sign.
Warm light spilling through the windows.
But the owner trained in Naples, and the oven? Imported.
When we walk in, the smell hits—wood fire, tomato, garlic, fresh dough.
Clara’s eyes light up.
“You’re kidding me,” she says. “This place exists here?”
I grin. “You think Manhattan has a monopoly on good pizza?”
She laughs. “Yes! But really, I just didn’t expect this.”
We grab a small table near the window.
I order for us—Margherita base, sausage crumbles, fresh ricotta, blistered cherry tomatoes, basil.
Simple. Perfect.
When the pie arrives, it’s bubbling and fragrant, crust charred just right.
She takes one bite and closes her eyes.
“Oh my God,” she murmurs.
That sound does something to me that has nothing to do with pizza.
“Told you,” I say, watching her instead of my plate.
We split the pie.
Trade bites.
Talk.
Really talk.
About her time at NYU. About my grandfather.
About how she used to sneak into bookstores as a kid and rearrange displays just for fun.
About how I started carving because I needed something solid when everything else felt fake.
She tells me about the pressure of being a Belle’s daughter.
I tell her about being the kid shipped off because he didn’t fit the mold.
She laughs easily tonight.
Teases me about my lack of date protocol.
“You didn’t even open my door,” she says at one point, mock scandalized.
“I carried you through a thunderstorm and chased off a bear,” I counter. “I think I’ve earned one technicality.”
She rolls her eyes—but she’s smiling.
After dinner, I nod toward the truck.
“You up for one more stop?” I ask.
Her eyes light with curiosity. “Depends. Is it murder?”
“Not tonight,” I reply.