Page 1 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Ivy

“Your turn, Ivy.”

Ugh, I hate this part.

It’s a rule we made years ago: no skipping, no backing out. Just one simple game. One wild, sometimes embarrassing, always meaningful dare. One by one, we take turns. And unfortunately, I’m up next.

It started back in high school with Harper and me—two painfully shy girls in the small town of Ashen Mills, desperate to push past the edges of our comfort zones.

Olivia joined us when we met in college at UNT Dallas.

From asking for extra sprinkles in a British accent to serenading the barista with a Disney song—the dares have always been our thing.

They’re more than a game now, though. They’re a way to remind each other to live. To be bold. To stop waiting around and just go for it.

And sure, now that we’re grown and allegedly mature, the stakes feel higher. The dares get bolder. Public, risky, and usually just mortifying enough to make me want to melt into the floor.

Which is why I already know I’m in trouble.

Because Harper is grinning like she’s already picked the perfect dare.

And Olivia? She’s just sipping her drink with that quiet smirk that always means she’s in on the plan.

And me?

It’s pretty clear I’m today’s entertainment.

My stomach twists as I glance around the bustling city square. We’re only in New Orleans for the weekend, a quick spring break girls’ trip before reality sucks us back in. But it doesn’t matter where we are, when it’s my turn, I always feel the same: vulnerable.

I lift my glass of sweet tea and take a slow sip, hoping they’ll go easy on me. Last time, they dared me to photobomb a group selfie. The girls thought it was hilarious. The bridal party I interrupted? Not so much.

“Alright, Ivy.” Harper leans in, her eyes sparkling with trouble. “You ready?”

I force a weak smile. “Can I just buy someone a coffee? Compliment a stranger’s shoes?”

“Nope,” Olivia says, popping the p. “It’s gotta be harder than that.”

They scan the street, whispering as if they’re choosing a victim. My pulse thunders in my ears as I watch their expressions light up as if they’ve spotted something. Or someone.

“There.” Harper points across the street. “Go up to that guy and hold his hand.”

I follow her gaze and instantly regret it.

He’s standing near a street performer, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side, as a guitarist strums a slow rock ballad. But it’s not the music that grabs me—it’s him .

Tall. Really tall. Dark hair, just messy enough to look like he didn’t try but still somehow perfect.

Light stubble brushes his jawline, sharp but not too much.

His black t-shirt clings to a broad chest, sleeves casually pushed up to reveal arms covered in ink; bold lines, intricate patterns that trail down to his wrists.

Faded jeans ride low on his hips, and a pair of battered Vans finishes the look.

He shifts slightly, relaxed and completely unbothered, like the kind of guy who doesn’t second-guess a single thing he does.

And the girls want me to go hold his hand.

“No way,” I blurt out, shaking my head. “Pick someone else.”

Harper grins. “Come on, Ivy. It’s harmless.”

“Are you insane?” My voice is half-whisper, half-squeak. “I don’t just…walk up to guys like that.”

“Exactly,” Olivia says, like I just proved her point.

Harper leans in, her tone hushed and coaxing. “He’s alone. It’s not like he’s with someone. Just walk up, take his hand for a few seconds, then walk away. That’s it.”

I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. The thought of walking up to a complete stranger, especially this very specific stranger, and touching him makes my skin buzz with nerves.

It’s not just that he’s hot. It’s that he looks like someone who lives in a different world.

Confident. Edgy. Unreachable. A guy who would never see a girl like me.

But my friends are watching. And worse—they’re enjoying this.

“No. Nope. Not doing it,” I say, arms crossed.

Harper raises a brow. “You made me sing karaoke stone-cold sober last night, remember?”

“That was different,” I argue. “You have stage presence. I have…social anxiety and questionable judgment. ”

Olivia laughs quietly but doesn’t push. She just gives me a look that says you can do this, even without words.

I let out a dramatic sigh. “Remind me again why we still do this?”

Harper reaches over and squeezes my arm. “Because comfort zones are boring and you, Ivy Taylor, are one yes away from something good.”

I glance between them, already crumbling. I hate how well they know me.

I push my chair back, muttering under my breath. “If I trip, cry, or burst into flames, I’m blaming both of you.”

Harper claps her hands. “That’s the spirit!”

My legs feel like Jell-O as I stand. The city hums around me—laughter spilling from café tables, the distant honk of a car, the shimmer of a saxophone, a trumpet calling from somewhere down the block, and the steady heartbeat of drums weaving it all together.

And somehow, every note feels like it’s carrying me closer to him, like the entire city is in on the dare.

He hasn’t noticed me. Not yet.

Good. Maybe I can get this over with before he even registers what’s happening.

I reach him just as the song shifts, the melody softer now. My heart slams against my ribs. Okay, Ivy. Just do it.

Before I can overthink it, I close my eyes, take a breath…

And grab his hand.

The moment my fingers touch his, it’s like flipping a switch. His hand is warm, and for a beat, he doesn’t move. Then his fingers tighten around mine, deliberate and sure, which sends a jolt right through me.

I look up, and suddenly, the world spins.

His gaze is intense, unreadable, but not cold. No, it’s worse than that. It’s curious. Focused. Like he sees right through me.

He’s taller than I expected, towering over me in a way that makes me feel both tiny and completely seen.

A ripple of cold works its way down my spine.

There’s something dangerous in the way he holds himself, all calm and confident, like nothing ever surprises him.

And yet, there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes too, as if he is happy to see me.

We stay like that, locked in this odd, pulsing moment. His fingers are still laced with mine. The music in the background feels far away, secondary to the way his thumb brushes lightly against my hand, like he’s not ready to let go.

I need to say something. Anything.

“I—uh—your hand is…big.”

Oh my gosh. Why am I like this?

His lips twitch into a smirk, a slow amused curve that makes my stomach flip. He says nothing at first, just watches me with those midnight eyes. The silence stretches long enough for me to want to dissolve into the pavement. I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.

My heart stutters. “Um…are you gonna let go?”

He tilts his head, just a little, and there’s that flicker again. Interest and a bit of amusement. “Do you want me to?”

I blink, completely thrown. What kind of question is that? And why, why does a tiny part of me whisper no?

He is so not the type of guy I normally go for.

I’m a book-before-bed kind of girl—the one who’d rather spend Friday night curled up with a novel than out at some loud party.

I like dependable. Quiet evenings with a blanket and tea.

I’m the one who sends polite texts and overthinks my punctuation.

The girl who feels more at home in a library than in a crowd. I like safe. I like predictable.

This man? He looks like a story with a twist ending. Tattoos and secrets. The type of man who walks straight into the storm because he knows he can handle it.

And I…I hate storms.

I clear my throat, my voice higher than usual. “Well, uh, this was fun. Good handshake. Solid…fingers. Okay. Bye.”

I tug my hand free and step back, face flaming. But just as I turn to make my escape, his fingers wrap gently but firmly around my wrist.

I suck in a breath as he pulls me toward him. I nearly stumble into his chest, caught by surprise. He smells like leather and vanilla frosting, which is unfairly good.

“Have coffee with me,” he says, like it’s not a question at all.

I mean, it doesn’t sound like a question. But it’s not quite a command either. He acts like he already knows I’m going to say yes.

And the craziest thing? A tiny part of me wants to.

Which is absurd.

I open my mouth, but nothing coherent comes out. I should say no. Step back. Apologize for the weirdness and return to my friends with my dignity intact. But I just stand there, heart racing, caught between curiosity and caution.

“I…” I pause, blinking up at him. “I can’t. I mean, thank you, but I’m here with my friends. It’s a girls’ trip, and we’ve got plans.”

His gaze shifts, just briefly, over my shoulder to where the girls are clearly watching us. Olivia is grinning like a lunatic. Harper has both thumbs up like she’s coaching me from the sidelines .

His eyes come back to mine, and there’s something playful in his expression now.

“I don’t think they’d mind,” he says, voice low.

My laugh is a breathy and nervous sound. “I should probably check.”

For a second, when I try to step back, he doesn’t let go. Not in a controlling way, more like he’s trying to decide something. His eyes search mine, and it’s like he sees more than I want him to. My hesitation. My curiosity. My heart that is still bruised from the last time I took a chance.

Then, slowly, he lets go.

The absence of his hand is immediate. Sharp. Like stepping into cool air after being out in the scorching sun all day.

I exhale as I turn away, not sure if I’m coming back.

But the thought of never seeing him again slams into me like a warning.

It’s absurd—I don’t even know his name—but something in me rebels at the idea of walking away.

It feels like I’ve stumbled into a chapter I was always meant to read, and if I close it now, I’ll never find my way back to it.