Page 2 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

I weave back through the crowd, my pulse still racing, the heat of his hand lingering against mine.

By the time I reach our table, both girls are watching me like they’re about to demand every detail, down to the punctuation.

Harper narrows her eyes in suspicion, tilting her chin as if she’s trying to read every detail on my face.

Olivia’s fingers drum against her glass, restless energy radiating off her as she leans forward, lips pressed tight to keep from blurting something first.

I stop in front of them, feeling their curiosity wrap around me.

“He wants to take me for coffee.” The words feel surreal as they leave my lips .

Harper smacks the table with both hands. “Go!”

Olivia, the ever cautious one, blinks at me. “Wait, seriously? Ivy, we don’t even know this guy.”

“Shut up, Olivia,” Harper says, rolling her eyes.

“Fine,” Olivia huffs, crossing her arms. “Coffee is…acceptable. But keep your phone in your hand, not in your purse. And text us every five minutes.”

“You don’t have to text us,” Harper says, her voice softer now. She reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine, which brings out her maternal side. “Just keep your phone close. But mostly? Just…have fun. You deserve it.”

I glance between them, my heart fluttering like I’m fifteen again. Part of me wants to retreat into the safety of my comfort zone and lock the door. But another part—restless, unfamiliar, a little reckless—is already standing, ready to see what happens next.

I hesitate for just a beat longer, then glance back toward him.

He’s still standing exactly where I left him, hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes locked on mine.

Like he was just waiting for me to walk up and grab his hand all day.

My feet move before my brain catches up, and before I know it, I’m standing beside him again.

He glances down at me with a half-smile. “Your hand’s shaking a little.”

“Crowds make me nervous,” I admit.

His voice is light. “For the sake of public safety, I better hold your hand.”

“Ok but just for stability,” I echo.

He tilts his head, studying me like he’s taking that in. Then his fingers brush mine, warm and sure, and my pulse trips. He catches my hand fully this time, the grip steady, protective.

“You hold on to me, I’ll hold on to you,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like a secret. “We’ll call it stability…but between us, I just like having an excuse.”

The air between us shifts. My lips curve, but my chest is too busy forgetting how to breathe to manage anything more than that.

“Come on,” he says, and once again it’s not a command, not exactly—it’s an invitation.

We weave through the crowd, the sound of street music wrapping around us from every direction—brassy trumpet notes, the rhythmic beat of a drum, a saxophone’s soulful cry. The air smells faintly of powdered sugar and roasting pecans, sweet and warm and a little dizzying.

I don’t look back toward the girls. If I do, I might lose my nerve.

I sneak a glance up at him. He walks like he belongs to the moment. As if the chaos of the world simply parts around him.

Meanwhile, I’m practically vibrating with nerves. Every brush of his arm sends a spark to my fingertips. Every inhale catches halfway in my chest.

What is happening to me?

I don’t do things like this. I don’t follow strangers down crowded streets. I’m the girl who makes lists. Who plays it safe. Who plans everything down to the minute.

And yet, here I am, walking beside a man who makes my heart race like it already knows him.

“So…” I manage, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “Do I get to know your name before we get coffee?”

His lips twitch, just barely. “Gray.”

Of course. A name like that belongs to a man like him .

Gray.

It suits the way he carries himself with that calm, quiet intensity.

“It’s short for Grayson,” he adds, then glances at me. “But don’t call me that.”

I almost smile at how quickly he says it. Not angry just, final. Like it belongs to a different version of him. A chapter he doesn’t open often.

“Got it,” I say, tucking the information away. “Gray.”

He looks at me again, eyes flicking down to meet mine like he’s weighing the way I say it. There’s something searching in his gaze, like maybe he’s not used to people really seeing him.

I should be unnerved by how naturally we fall into step. But I’m not.

We pass a violinist on the corner, and I notice Gray dip his hand into his pocket and quietly drop a few bills into the open case. He says nothing about it. Just keeps walking, like kindness is a habit he doesn’t feel the need to advertise.

It sticks with me.

He doesn’t just look good. He seems good.

“You got a name,” he says suddenly, “or am I just supposed to call you hand-holding stranger forever?”

I laugh, caught off guard. “It’s Ivy.”

He repeats it slowly, as if trying it on. “Ivy.”

My name has never sounded like that before.

We turn the corner, and a coffee shop comes into view—tucked between a narrow bookstore and a flower shop spilling color onto the sidewalk. Twinkle lights drape lazily across the awning, and window boxes overflow with blooms, petals brushing the glass as if they’re leaning toward the sunlight .

The air is a heady mix of espresso and roses, warm and sweet—like a memory I’ll want to keep.

Even with our hands linked, he walks close enough that I can feel the heat of him, every step syncing with mine. It’s ridiculous how a simple touch can make my pulse trip over itself.

I sneak a glance up at him. He’s watching the street ahead like he owns it—like the crowd parts because he’s here.

“You’re quiet,” he says suddenly, voice low, certain.

I shrug, pretending his nearness isn’t short-circuiting my brain. “I’m just…taking it all in.”

One corner of his mouth tips up. “Taking me in, you mean?”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Wow. Modest, aren’t you?”

“Not modest,” he says, eyes flicking down to mine for half a beat. “Just observant.” His gaze drops to our joined hands. “Like the way you haven’t let go.”

“I told you—stability,” I counter, tightening my grip just to prove a point.

“Uh-huh.” His tone says he doesn’t buy it. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ivy.”

The way he says my name—it’s not casual. It’s deliberate. Weighted. My stomach flips.

“What?” I ask, my voice barely above the hum of the saxophone.

His lips twitch as if he’s holding something back. “Nothing.” He holds my gaze for one breath too long before looking ahead again.

We reach the door, and he steps forward to hold it open.

“After you, Ivy.”

The way he says it, it feels like a promise .

As I step inside, I can’t help but wonder if this moment is the beginning of everything I never saw coming.