Page 23 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Ivy

My kitchen table looks less like a place for meals and more like a war zone of sticky notes, empty coffee mugs, and open sketch pads.

Two different clients are blowing up my inbox—one wants their logo in “a softer shade of teal”, and another can’t decide if their bakery font should be whimsical or professional. Spoiler: it can be both.

I rub my temples, push my blue light glasses up the bridge of my nose, and lean closer to my laptop. Three tabs open with design programs, two with stock photo sites, one with Pinterest, and exactly zero with food delivery, though I’m regretting that now.

“This is what freedom looks like,” I mutter under my breath, half convincing myself.

I traded in the office job for this—clients from all over, projects that make my brain stretch, and the ability to work in sweatpants without anyone judging me.

Well…unless you count Harper, who swears I’m a workaholic now, or Olivia, who says I look “too happy” to be as swamped as I claim.

They’re both right.

Because somewhere between revising website banners and re-coloring Instagram templates, I’ve developed this ridiculous new crutch: Gray.

And okay, maybe I’ve replayed that kiss in my head more than once this week. Or a hundred times.

It’s been a week since that night at his apartment—since the rain, the movie, and the way his lips felt against mine like he’d been holding back for years.

We haven’t kissed again, mostly because we haven’t seen each other in person.

Life got in the way—work deadlines, friends and other obligations pulling us in opposite directions.

But even with the distance, the tension hasn’t faded. It lingers in every late-night call, every playful text that stretches longer than it should, every pause where neither of us wants to hang up.

My mind blanks. The creative spark that’s usually quick to light stays frustratingly still.

I close my laptop with a sigh, lean back in my chair, and stare at the ceiling. My to-do list is long, but what I really want is something simple.

I want to hear his voice.

Before I can overthink it, I grab my phone, thumb hovering over his name.

I rub my temples and glance at the screen. I had promised to call Gray at some point today. My thumb hovers for just a second before I hit his contact and press the call button.

“Please distract me from hex codes and deadlines,” I whisper as it rings.

And then…nothing.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

No answer .

I stare at the screen for a beat too long, the silence on the other end somehow louder than I expected. A little knot tightens in my chest and fills with, well, disappointment. Like a balloon losing air slowly.

I set the phone on my nightstand and decide this is a sign that I need to focus on work.

Just start somewhere , I tell myself.

I open my laptop again, click into the file, and begin fiddling with fonts, adjusting spacing. Nothing feels right. Every letter feels stiff, every color too dull. I drag the text box three pixels to the left, then three pixels back, then delete the whole thing with a groan.

Frustrated, I snatch up my phone and fire off a message to the group chat with Harper and Olivia.

Ivy

Someone tell me why my brain refuses to cooperate with typography tonight.

Harper

Because you were up too late overthinking a certain worship-band boy

Olivia

Or because fonts are evil. Pick Arial and go to bed.

Ivy

Arial?? That’s a crime. You’re both banned.

Harper

Not banned. Just honest. Also: did you eat dinner?

Ivy

Popcorn counts .

The back-and-forth makes me smile, but it doesn’t fix the blank page staring me down. With a sigh, I set the phone aside, determined to at least try again.

I shift another headline across the page. Change the font. Delete it. Start over.

Still nothing.

Then—buzz.

My phone lights up with Gray’s name, and suddenly every pixel on my screen blurs out of focus.

My heart jumps before I even register it, and suddenly that knot in my chest loosens just a little.

I answer on the first ring, nearly spilling my tea in my rush to tap the green button.

“Hello!” I practically yell, breathless.

His soft chuckle comes through the line, warm and slow. “Hey you.”

Oh, his voice. How it instantly wraps around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. I swear, I could sit here all night just listening to him talk. He could read me the back of a cereal box and I’d probably swoon.

“Sorry I missed your call,” he says, his tone low and a little sheepish. “Just got back from a run and hopped in the shower.”

Gray. In the shower.

Images I have no business imagining flash through my mind: water gliding over tanned skin, dark tattoos slick and gleaming beneath the spray.

I sit up straighter, as if good posture will somehow purify my thoughts.

We’ve known each other for, what, four weeks? That doesn’t exactly give me a license to picture him in the shower .

Or to wonder if those tattoos on his arms continue across his chest, his back...

Oh no. Nope. Brain, stop.

This is not helpful behavior.

“You there?” he asks, teasing creeping into his voice.

Ugh. Get it together, Ivy.

“Yep! Yep, I’m here. Sorry, I was buried in work.”

“Oh man, I’m interrupting,” he says. “Should I let you get back to bossing fonts around?”

I laugh into my pillow, he already knows me so well. “Please don’t. I’ve been staring at the same project for an hour and it’s starting to feel personal.”

“Stuck?”

“Majorly. I’ve redone this thing three times and it still looks…blah. I want it to be simple but still make people stop scrolling and care.”

He hums, like he’s really considering it. “Okay, give me the rundown. What are you trying to say with it?”

I flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “That this brand isn’t just another cookie-cutter startup. They want to feel approachable, welcoming, creative but trustworthy. Like…you’d hire them and also want to grab coffee with them.”

“That’s oddly specific,” he teases, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Welcome to branding,” I mutter.

“Well,” he says slowly, “sounds like you already know the heart of it. You just need to design from that. Forget the trends. Just…show people what you just told me.”

I pause, letting his words sink in. Not just because they’re good advice, but because it’s him. Gentle. Steady. Like he’s not just pointing me in the right direction but sitting here with me in it .

“You make it sound easy,” I whisper.

“I think it’s just easy for me to believe in you,” he replies, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

Something warm unfurls in my chest. “Careful. You’re dangerously close to becoming my official design assistant.”

He chuckles. “Do I get paid in coffee or kisses?”

My breath catches. I should laugh it off. I should tease him back. But instead I whisper, softer than I mean to, “Kisses. Definitely kisses.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, then his voice drops low, rougher now. “Good. Because that’s the only currency I’m interested in from you.”

And there it is. Full swoon. Someone call NASA because I am no longer tethered to the earth.

We drift into lighter conversation after that, letting the seriousness fade.

“So, weirdest injury you’ve ever had?” Gray asks.

I grin. “That’s easy. Middle school, gym class. I tried to jump rope with three people at once, tripped, and sprained my wrist. The nurse gave me a bag of ice and told me I was talented.”

He laughs, low and warm. “Talented at what? Falling?”

“Apparently.”

“Okay, my turn,” he says. “I once broke a toe playing air guitar.”

I choke on a laugh. “Air guitar? You mean imaginary strings?”

“Yes, ma’am. Rocked too hard, miscalculated the jump, and met the coffee table with my foot.” He shakes his head, laughing. “The ER basically told me there’s nothing you can do for a broken toe except tape it and walk it off.”

“Wow. So heroic. ”

“Exactly,” he says, smirking. “Really adds to the rock star image.”

The conversation slides into music, then food, then into that hazy territory of pure silliness.

“I once ate a bowl of SpaghettiOs with crushed Doritos on top,” he admits proudly, “and called it dinner.”

“That’s not dinner, that’s a crime against humanity.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your culinary confession?”

I hesitate, then groan. “Pickles and peanut butter. Straight from the jars.”

There’s silence for a beat. Then he makes a gagging noise so dramatic I bury my face in the pillow.

“Separate jars!” I yell. “Not together!”

“Oh, well, that makes it totally normal then,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

We debate whether cereal counts as a meal and then move on to ranking fast food fries.

“Waffle fries are superior,” Gray insists.

“Wrong. Curly fries win every time,” I shoot back.

“No way. You only like them because they look fun.”

“Exactly! Food should be fun. Who decided fries had to be boring?”

We’re still bickering, both laughing too much to take it seriously. Somewhere between waffle fries and curly fries, between laughter and the easy rhythm we’ve fallen into, the words tumble out before I can stop them.

“Okay, but if my boyfriend doesn’t agree with me, then…”

I freeze. The word hangs there, heavy, impossible to snatch back.

Silence.

My stomach plummets. “Oh no. Oh my gosh. I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to label us. I don’t even know why I said that, I wasn’t trying to overstep or assume anything, I just…”

“Ivy.”

His voice is quiet. Calm.

“Yeah?”

“Your boyfriend. I like the sound of that.”

I freeze. “You…do?”

He laughs and the sound of it makes my toes curl. “Yeah, I really do. I mean, I’ve kinda been walking around all week acting like I was yours anyway. Guess it would be nice to make it official.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling so wide it hurts. “So…boyfriend and girlfriend?”

“Unless you want to go steady with someone else,” he teases. “But I gotta tell you, I make a pretty great boyfriend. I’m available 24/7 for pep talks and bad days. I’d write you a song—might even sing it if you asked. I bring flowers just because. And my hugs? Elite. My snuggles? Even better.”

My heart does this ridiculous flip, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. He can’t possibly mean all that. But oh, how I wish he did.

“I’ll take my chances,” I whisper, somehow managing to find my voice.

“You sure?” he grins, playing it up. “This is a big commitment. I may also flood your inbox with voice memos and bad jokes.”

“Sounds like heaven,” I murmur, pulse racing, and before I can stop myself, I add, “I wouldn’t mind more of those snuggles. And for the record…I really like flowers.”

There’s a pause. A warm, comfortable silence that says maybe he’s just as undone as I am.

Then suddenly, I sit up a little straighter. “Oh my gosh—I know what to do! ”

Gray chuckles. “For the graphics?”

“Yes! It just clicked. Like fully, completely. I can picture it now.”

“I knew you’d get there,” he says, his voice full of pride—and maybe a little reluctance. “I’m glad I could be of some inspiration to my girlfriend.”

I smile. “I should probably hang up and get to work before I lose the spark.”

“Agreed,” he says, but there’s a playful pout in his tone. “Go, be brilliant. But I’m taking full credit for the design.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously supportive,” he quips. “Now go. Before I distract you again with more of my impressive boyfriend energy.”

I bite my lip, heart too full. “Goodnight, boyfriend.”

“Goodnight, girlfriend. Knock those graphics out. I’m already proud of you.”