Page 25 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Ivy

The past two weeks have slipped by in a blur. Somehow, it’s already August—which means Harper is back to work at the school. My phone buzzes less now without her constant texts about being bored or asking if we want to hit the mall “just to browse.”

Gray and I have only grown closer. We’ve carved out time for movie nights, late walks around the park with iced coffees in hand, and even a disastrous attempt at cooking dinner together that ended in takeout and laughter on the kitchen floor.

Some evenings it’s as simple as me tucked under his arm on the couch, listening to him strum his guitar while I pretend to read.

And in the middle of it all, something in me has shifted.

I’ve gone to church every Sunday without fail.

Every morning, I open my Bible before the day can swallow me whole.

Half the time I don’t fully understand what I’m reading, but modern apps and devotionals fill in the gaps—and when they don’t, I’ve got a boyfriend who somehow never tires of my endless questions about faith.

Now, I’m back at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen still lingering after a Zoom call that ended with polite goodbyes and awkward waves. I sink into my chair, the silence of my apartment pressing in after thirty minutes of forced smiles and professionalism.

This is it—my biggest gig yet. A new client who could actually put my name on the map if I don’t screw it up. But now that the adrenaline from smiling through the meeting has worn off, the weight of their feedback lands like a brick in my chest.

The first round of design edits flashes on my screen, bleeding in more red than I’d like.

I scroll through the notes slowly: adjust the spacing here, change the color scheme there, try a more modern font. None of it is awful. In fact, most of it makes sense. But all I see is critique. Not of the design—of me.

I drag my hands down my face and blow out a breath. This is supposed to be the one thing I’m good at, the place where I don’t feel like a fraud. But right now, all I hear are the whispers of self-doubt clawing their way to the surface.

Maybe they made a mistake asking me.

My phone buzzes from the edge of the desk. I reach for it, half-hoping it’s Gray, but it’s just Harper lighting up our group chat.

Harper

Picnic after church on Sunday. You’re both coming.

Olivia

Nope.

I smirk, typing back.

Ivy

Did you even think about it?

Olivia

I did. For a full ten seconds.

Harper

I’m picking you up. Wear something cute.

Olivia

Wear something cute to go stand outside and swat flies? Hard pass.

Harper

Yes, Olivia. God forbid you look cute while eating potato salad.

Olivia

I’m not going. Y’all have fun.

Harper

You know what Liv, I didn’t want to have to do this but here we go. I dare you to come to the church picnic with us tomorrow.

I chuckle, shaking my head. I glance at my phone, equal parts horrified and impressed. That was genius. Can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself—it is Olivia’s turn for a dare, after all.

Harper’s relentless optimism is a force of nature, and Olivia’s stubbornness is the only thing I know strong enough to withstand it. But now? This is going to be good.

For the past three Sundays, Harper’s been coming with me to church.

She jumped straight into serving in the children’s ministry—and she loves it, even if she won’t stop grumbling about how “bossy” Micah is.

And truthfully, I’m proud of her. She is now practically running the kids’ area with the kind of energy that only Harper could pull off.

There’s just one issue. Harper doesn’t just serve during one service hour, she volunteers for both. Every Sunday, she’s wrangling preschoolers through snack time and crafts, wiping runny noses, and keeping the peace when someone inevitably tries to steal the red crayon.

“Don’t you want to sit in for service?” I asked her last Sunday before we parted ways.

Harper waved me off with a grin. “Oh, I’ll watch it online later. And honestly, I kind of like it better that way. I can fast-forward through announcements and pause for snack breaks.”

I’d just rolled my eyes. “That’s not the same.”

“Sure it is, I still get the message, I’m just not crammed into a seat with a hundred other people.”

But I can’t help but feel like she’s missing out. There is something different about being in service, about feeling the music shake the walls, seeing hands lift in worship, hearing voices blend together like they are all reaching for the same hope. I’ve grown to love it.

I’d even caught Micah giving her an impressed nod last Sunday when she managed to single-handedly calm a room of sugar-hyped seven-year-olds with nothing but a whisper and a bag of Goldfish crackers. She claimed it was the snacks. I think it’s something else.

But as much as I love seeing Harper get involved, there’s this quiet ache every time I look at that empty spot beside me. Then there’s Olivia.

I tried asking her once—if she’d ever consider coming with me. Just once. She laughed it off, saying, “You and Harper are enough. You don’t need me.”

But she’s wrong.

I want her there. More than I can explain. It’s not just about filling a seat; it’s about experiencing this thing that’s started to feel important to me and to Harper.

And sometimes, I catch myself daydreaming—three of us side by side, flipping through our Bibles, laughing too loud during prayer time because Harper can’t stop cracking jokes, Olivia sighing dramatically but staying because she secretly loves it.

But that’s just a daydream. For now, anyway.

My phone pings, pulling me from my thoughts.

Gray

Ice cream later?

My heart does a weird little flip.

Ivy

Absolutely. Time?

Gray

I’ll pick you up at 7.

I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, biting back a smile before setting the phone down. I lean back in my chair, staring at the mess of design edits sprawled across my laptop.

I can fix them. I know I can. But that nagging voice in the back of my mind whispers: They only hired you because they couldn’t find anyone else.

I shake off the thought, straightening up and clicking back into my work. I don’t have time for doubt. I have designs to fix and an ice cream date with Gray to get ready for.

The bell above the door jingles as we step into the ice cream shop.

The place is straight out of a movie—black-and-white checkered floors, red vinyl barstools lined up against a shiny counter, and walls plastered with retro posters of sundaes that probably have enough sugar to knock out a linebacker.

Gray grins, nodding toward the chalkboard menu stretched across the wall. “Pick your poison.”

I squint up at the board, eyes scanning the options. “There are, like...a hundred flavors. How do you ever choose?”

“It’s a talent,” he says, stepping up to the counter like he owns the place. He taps his fingers on the glass, inspecting the tubs of brightly colored ice cream. “I’ve pretty much tried them all.”

I raise an eyebrow. “All of them?”

“Yep.” He points to a tub of something violently blue with swirls of pink. “That one tastes like bubblegum, regret, and poor life choices.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Good to know.”

The girl behind the counter steps up, her hands already wrapped in plastic gloves. “What can I get for y’all?”

Gray doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll do a scoop of the Java Chip and a scoop of Rocky Road in a waffle cone.”

She nods, scooping out the flavors with practiced ease before turning to me.

I glance back up at the board. “Uh…Salted Caramel Pretzel in a cup, please. ”

Gray turns to me with mock judgment written all over his face. “A cup? Really?”

“What?” I lift a brow. “Cones are messy.”

He leans in a little, eyes gleaming. “That’s the point. Where’s the fun if you’re not at risk of having ice cream all over your face?”

I smirk. “You say that like it wouldn’t be a total disaster.”

He shrugs, voice low and playful. “Disaster, maybe. But kind of adorable. I mean, I wouldn’t mind helping you clean it up.”

My face goes beet red.

Gray runs a hand through his hair, eyes wide. “Okay—yikes. That was…I didn’t mean—wow. That sounded way less inappropriate in my head.”

I burst out laughing, and he groans, burying his face in his hands. “Can we pretend I said something way cooler than that?”

“Not a chance, that one’s going in the vault.” I say through my giggles. “On second thought, I’ll take a cone.”

The girl nods, hiding a smile as she turns to scoop.

Gray glances at me sideways, clearly trying not to laugh. “Changing your mind, huh?”

I cross my arms. “Just living on the edge.”

Gray grins like he’s just won something. “Knew you’d come around.”

We slide into a booth near the window, the setting sun pouring in like a spotlight on this weirdly perfect little moment.

I take my first bite—sweet and salty with the perfect crunch of pretzel—and let out a small sigh. “Okay, this is actually amazing.”

“Told you,” Gray says around a bite of his own cone. “I don’t mess around when it comes to ice cream.”

Time slips by as we eat and laugh and share bites across the table. I’m halfway through my cone when I catch Gray watching me with the biggest smile on his face.

“What?” I ask, self-conscious all of a sudden.

He leans in slightly, voice soft. “You’ve got some right here.” He taps the tip of my nose with his finger, swiping away a smudge of ice cream. Then, before I can process it, he licks his finger, grinning like he’s fully aware he’s messing with my head and enjoying every second.

“Told you I wouldn’t mind helping you clean it up,” he says with a wink.

I practically melt into the vinyl seat.

I’m about to respond when I hear a crash from the front of the shop. We both turn just in time to see a kid, no older than six, staring in horror at his ice cream splattered across the checkered floor. His mouth is open, eyes wide, like he hasn’t quite processed the tragedy yet.

The woman behind the counter looks torn between sympathy and horror. “Oh, honey…” she starts, but the kid’s lower lip is already trembling.

Before I can react, Gray’s already on his feet, heading toward the counter. He leans down, dropping to a squat in front of the kid, his expression softening.

“Hey, buddy,” he says gently. “That’s a real bummer.”

The kid sniffles, nodding slowly. “It was my favorite…”

Gray glances at the sad splatter of mint chocolate chip smeared across the tile and nods solemnly. “Yeah, that’s the good stuff.” He looks up at the woman behind the counter. “Can I get another scoop? On me.”

Her eyes widen, and she nods quickly, already scooping out a fresh mound of mint chocolate chip. The kid stares at Gray like he just grew a cape and flew in from a comic book.

“Thank you,” the boy whispers, cradling the cone like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Gray pats him on the back, standing up and walking back over to me, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slips back into the booth like it was nothing, like he didn’t just make that kid’s entire day.

I’m staring at him, my cone paused mid-air. “That was really nice of you.”

He shrugs, taking a bite of Rocky Road. “It’s just ice cream.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not.”

Gray glances up at me, his eyes meeting mine. For a second, the lightness fades, replaced by something deeper. “I guess you’re right.”

The silence lingers between us, warm and comfortable, until I finally clear my throat. “So, you do this often? Save the day in random ice cream shops?”

He laughs, breaking the tension. “Only on Wednesdays.”

He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow. “What? Do I have ice cream on my face now?”

I shake my head, grinning. “No. Just, you’re really committed to that cone.”

He glances at it. “You can’t mess around with ice cream. It’s a race against time.”

I laugh. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

I snort. “Didn’t realize I was eating with such a pro.”

He leans in slightly, voice playful. “Stick with me. I’ll teach you a few things.”

My stomach flips. “You’re something else.”

He tilts his head. “Something good?”

My breath catches. “Maybe.”

His eyes drop to my lips for a second and I feel heat rise up my neck. Then he leans back, casual, but his eyes never leave mine.

“You wanna know something?” he asks.

“That depends,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Is it embarrassing?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Now you have to tell me.”

He grins. “First time I saw you. New Orleans.”

The memory hits like a wave—the dare, his hand in mine, the way the noise of the street melted away.

“I remember thinking,” he says slowly, almost like the words cost him something, “that you were the boldest, most unforgettable girl I’d ever seen.”

My mouth opens, but no words come.

“You walked up like you belonged next to me,” he adds, softer now. “Like you’d always been there.”

I blink, stunned. “Gray…”

He gives me a half-smile, like he’s embarrassed he said too much. “I didn’t expect you to stay in my head after that. But you did.”

For a moment, I forget about the ice cream in my hand, the shop around us, everything. I can only hear the sound of my heart hammering in my chest.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I whisper.

“Me either,” he says, his voice a low hum. “I’m glad we were wrong.”

I glance down, trying to breathe past the ache in my chest. “You surprise me.”

His smile turns playful again. “Good. I like keeping you on your toes. ”

Just then, I realize my ice cream cone is melting fast, dripping down the side like a sticky waterfall. “Dang it,” I mutter, twisting the cone and trying to catch it with frantic licks. “This thing is out of control.”

Gray laughs. “Here, let me help.”

Before I can protest, he gently pulls my hand toward him, my fingers still wrapped around the cone, and leans in. I watch, stunned, as his tongue sweeps along the side of the cone, cleaning up the caramel drips like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

My breath catches. I don’t move. Can’t move.

He glances up through his lashes, a grin tugging at his lips. “Crisis averted.”

My jaw drops. “Gray!”

He smirks, unbothered. “What? It was a matter of public safety.”

My face goes red, heat rushing to my cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs, letting go of my wrist with a wink. “Maybe. But you’re still here.”