Page 89 of Blackwood

I tilt my head. “Honestly? Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

He raises a brow.

“If I had to guess.” I swirl my spoon through the foam. “Something with dance. Maybe the KC Chiefs if I’m feeling extra sparkly. Or maybe open a studio one day. Teach little boys and girls how to kick ass in rhinestones.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, eyes locked on mine like I’m some kind of mystery he’s determined to solve.

I clear my throat. “What about you? Going to carry the Whitmore torch into the nearest Wall Street boardroom?”

He laughs, leaning back in his chair. “God, no. That’s Cal’s dream, not mine. I just want to paint, draw.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been there.

“I want to travel,” he says. “See how light hits stone at Giotto’s Bell Tower in Florence, sketch the shadows in Santorini, paint the skyline in Tokyo. I want to capture those moments, not to sell. Just to keep them. Maybe open a little gallery someday. Nothing big. Just mine.”

“That sounds perfect, Cade.”

We talk for the rest of the hour, back and forth, easy. Shows. Music. Most embarrassing high school moments. All the things we somehow never talked about even when I was crashing in their guest room after practice.

Then he asks about my family and my smile slips.

Cade notices. “Sorry,” he says, voice quiet. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

I shake my head. “It’s okay. It’s just not a happy story.”

He nods. “Ellie told me enough to know it hurt. I remember when Zeke died, but she didn’t tell me every—”

“Murdered,” I cut in. “Zeke was murdered.”

Cade’s eyes widen, the words catching in his throat. “Shit. Bella, I’m so sorry.”

I take a breath and sip my coffee. “It’s okay. Just not really… first date talk.”

He smiles, warm and a little sly. “So you do agree it’s a date.”

Despite myself, I laugh. Just a little. And just like that, some of the ache lifts. “I guess it is a date,” I say, a little breathless from laughing.

I glance at my phone and curse under my breath. “Shit. A date that’s officially about to make me late for practice.”

“What?”

“I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to go,” I say, grabbing my bag.

“Hey, let me take you.”

I hesitate. “It’s okay, I can run.”

“No seriously,” he says, already standing and grabbing his keys. “Wexley’s got hills. And I’ll get you there on time, trust me. My car is pretty fast.”

“Careful, Whitmore. One of the last times I got into your car… it was technically stolen.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well at least this time you won’t be driving.”

We head outside and he leads me to his car. Of course, it’s not just a car. It’s a brand-new Aston Martin Vantage,all matte black and wicked curves. Sleek, low to the ground, with blood-red brake calipers and carbon fiber trim.

A Whitmore-mobile if I’ve ever seen one.

He opens the door like a gentleman. “After you.”