Page 43 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

I don’t know why I’m nervous.

I’ve closed billion-dollar deals with one signature.

I've taken private calls from world leaders and argued policy with people whose names sit heavy in Forbes. But none of that compares to standing outside Lila’s bedroom door, palms slightly damp, trying not to look like a man on the edge of losing it over a woman in a dress.

Because tonight… tonight is different.

Tonight, I’m taking her out. Not as a nanny, not as the woman who tucks my niece and nephew into bed, or the one who leaves her laptop open at the kitchen table with notes scribbled on napkins. But as mine. A date. A real one.

I knock once, then again. The door opens, and my heart forgets how to function.

She’s wearing this soft pink dress that flares out just enough at the hem to be feminine and elegant but hugs her waist like it was stitched with her in mind.

Her hair is pinned back on one side, curling over her bare shoulder, and those eyes, hell, those eyes, search my face like she’s trying to read my mind.

If she could, she’d know every thought is some version of you’re stunning. I’m done for. And I’m going to mess this up if I say something dumb.

“You clean up well,” she teases, her voice light and maybe a little shy.

“You’re breathtaking,” I say, before I can stop myself.

Her smile falters, just for a second. “Dean.”

“I mean it.” I reach for her hand. “Come on, before I forget where we’re going.”

We head down the stairs quietly, the house already still with the kids tucked in at her mom’s for the night. I unlock the car and open the door for her, watching the way her dress rides up a fraction when she climbs inside.

Focus. You’ve waited this long. Don’t blow it.

The restaurant sits nestled in an old brick hotel, all art-deco charm and faded grandeur.

The kind of place locals whisper about when they say “fancy.” The lobby still boasts the original tiled floor and velvet-backed chairs that sag with time.

But the dining room, soft lighting, white linen, the smell of roasted garlic and butter, feels like we’ve stepped into a different world.

She runs her fingers along the edge of the menu, biting her lip in thought. I can’t stop staring.

“What?” she asks, her brow lifting.

“You’re not even trying, are you?” I murmur.

“Trying what?”

“To be irresistible.”

A flush rises in her cheeks, and she ducks her head. “You’re going to make it impossible to concentrate on the food.”

I grin. “That’s kind of the plan.”

When the server returns, we both order seafood—because when the ocean’s practically at your feet, anything else feels like a crime.

She picks the crab-stuffed flounder, her eyes lighting up at the words “garlic herb butter.” I go for the blackened grouper, mostly because I know it’ll come with those roasted potatoes in the same butter sauce she won’t be able to resist stealing off my plate.

“Careful,” I murmur, handing the server the menu once she’s made her choice. “Garlic butter has been known to drive men mad. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She smirks over the rim of her water glass. “Are you saying you’re easy, Dean Harrington?”

I lean in a little closer, resting my forearms on the table. “I’m saying I’m a man of simple tastes. Butter. Warm bread. A woman in a slinky dress who knows how to use her smile as a weapon.”

She flushes, but it’s the kind that makes her shoulders relax instead of tense. She rolls her eyes with a laugh and mutters something about “predictable men,” but her gaze lingers on my mouth for a beat longer than necessary. I catch it, file it away like a prize.

The food arrives, steaming and golden and unfairly mouthwatering. Lila lets out a low moan at the first bite of her flounder, and I nearly choke on my wine.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “You keep making noises like that and they’re going to ask us to take it to go.” She chuckles and unfortunately refrains from more of the audible enjoyment of her meal.

After dessert, something decadent with chocolate and espresso that Lila moans over like it’s a religious experience, I pay the bill and take her hand again.

“Where are we going?” she asks as we step back out into the warm night air.

“You’ll see.”

The town theater is showing a black-and-white movie from the ’50s. Romance. Laughter. Not a superhero in sight. We sit in the back row, our shoulders brushing, her perfume clinging to my skin like temptation.

Halfway through the film, she turns to say something, and I kiss her.

It’s soft, gentle. Her lips part just slightly, and then we’re falling into something deeper. Something real.

She pulls back first, her eyes searching mine. “Dean.”

“I know.” I press my forehead to hers. “I know. I just needed to do that once.”

Her hand rests on my thigh for the rest of the film. No more words needed. The credits roll, slow and elegant across the screen, and Lila’s hand slips into mine without a word.

The theater hums with soft chatter and laughter as people shuffle toward the doors, but for a moment, we stay seated. Her thumb brushes over mine, and I glance sideways to find her already watching me.

There’s something in her eyes I can’t quite name. Not hesitation, not exactly. It’s softer than that. Maybe wonder. Or maybe that same ache I feel pressing against my ribs like it’s been there for years, just waiting for her.

“You hungry?” I ask as we step out onto the sidewalk. The night wraps around us, warm and still, the town glowing under strings of lights hung between lamp posts and storefronts.

Her lips curve. “I just had a chocolate mousse that changed my life.”

“So… that’s a yes?”

She laughs, and God, I’d drive across state lines just to hear that sound again. “Maybe a little.”

“Come on,” I say, lacing our fingers together again. “There’s a place two blocks over. I hear it’s the best ice cream in town. Open late. It’s practically law that we stop.”

She pretends to groan but lets me tug her along, her shoulder brushing mine with every other step.

It’s not crowded when we get there. Just two teenagers behind the counter arguing over what song to play next and the hum of an old chest freezer working overtime.

She picks lemon sorbet. I go for cookie dough. We take our cones to a bench outside, where the breeze carries the scent of salt and sea grass from the nearby dunes.

Lila swings one leg over the other and leans back, eyes on the stars above us.

“I forgot how quiet it is here at night,” she says softly. “Like the world finally exhales.”

I watch the way the wind toys with her hair. “You like that?”

She nods. “In Boston and Hartford, everything buzzes. Lights, traffic, ambition. You forget to listen to your own thoughts.”

“And what are yours saying now?” I ask, keeping my tone light, but my gaze steady on her face.

She licks her sorbet, then shrugs one shoulder. “They’re still sorting themselves out.”

We sit in silence for a minute, my fingertips rubbing back and forth across her bare shoulder. It’s not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful.

“I used to think I needed the noise,” she says after a while. “The chaos of labs and grant deadlines. The constant forward motion. Like if I ever stopped moving, I’d… disappear.”

“You’re not disappearing now.”

“No.” Her eyes meet mine. “I think I’m finally learning how to stand on my own.”

I shift, letting my knee rest against hers. “You don’t have to choose one version of yourself, Lila. You don’t have to be just the scientist or just the nanny or just the girl who kisses her boss in the back row of a movie theater.”

That earns a quiet laugh. “You say that like it’s simple.”

“I don’t think anything about you is simple.” I grin. “But that’s kind of the point.”

She finishes her cone, wiping her fingers on a napkin, then looks over at me, eyes serious now.

“You make it easy to believe in the good things,” she says. “Even when I’ve spent years preparing for them to fall apart.”

My heart stutters. “That’s all I want. To be something good. For you.”

She reaches over, her fingers threading through mine again. “You already are.”

We stay like that until the cones are long gone, until the teenagers inside lock the door and turn off the neon sign.

Then I stand and offer her my hand again. “Walk with me?”

She takes it. No hesitation this time.

We wander toward the beach, shoes in hand as we reach the sand. The moon glimmers on the water, silver threads woven through inky black. I roll up my pants and wade in a few inches, the surf cold enough to bite.

Lila stays on the edge, the hem of her dress fluttering around her knees. I walk back toward her, salt air curling between us, and slide my arms around her waist.

She steps in closer, her palms on my chest. “You’re sandy.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile is soft.

We don’t kiss again. Not yet. We just stand there, pressed close, her cheek against my collarbone, my hands steady at her back. The ocean breathes around us. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m rushing toward something or trying to escape it.

I’m just… here. With her. And that’s everything.

The silence in the car isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Buzzing. Thick with everything we didn’t say back in that theater.

Her hand brushes mine on the center console and I swear it scorches. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak either. Just leans her head back against the seat, her eyes trained out the window like the quiet night might somehow offer her answers neither of us are brave enough to ask yet.

But I see the way her knees shift toward me. The way she bites her bottom lip when I glance over. And God help me; I’m hanging on by a thread.

I grip the wheel tighter.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice a little hoarse.

She turns, eyes shining in the soft glow from the dash lights. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About?”

She hesitates. “How different tonight felt. Good different.”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. It did.”