Page 49 of Dare to Hold (Dare To Love #1)

Gray

The morning air is cold enough to bite, but I don’t care.

My palms are warm, fingers wrapped around the to-go cup from our favorite coffee shop, Royal Brew—vanilla oat milk latte.

Her favorite. One of two I bought her. Because she drinks the first like it’s air and always wishes she had another halfway through.

I climb the steps to her apartment, heart pounding like I’m picking her up for our first date all over again. It’s ridiculous, but it’s also kind of perfect. I shift the coffee to one hand and ring the doorbell.

The door opens seconds later, and there she is—glowing, and wrapped in a soft maroon sweater dress that makes my thoughts spiral in seventeen different directions.

Her smile is a little shy, like she still can’t believe this is real.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say, lifting the coffee. “For you.”

She grins, reaching for it. “You’re the actual best. Thank you.”

“Just wait.”

She tilts her head. “Wait for what?”

“You’ll see.” I wink, stepping back so she can grab her bag and lock the door behind her. When we get to the car, I open the passenger side and gesture inside.

She gasps, spotting the bouquet resting on the seat — deep fall oranges and creamy whites, wrapped in brown paper and tied with gold twine.

“Gray…” she breathes, touched. “I missed your flowers…”

“Oh, those aren’t for you,” I say, deadpan.

She blinks, confused.

“They’re for your mom.” I glance at her with a mischievous smirk. “You already like me. She’s the one I need to win over.”

She bursts out laughing, swatting my arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And charming,” I add.

She lifts the bouquet to her chest, sighing with a smile. “Fine. I’ll allow it.”

I round the truck and slide into my seat. Before I even buckle, I reach down in the back seat and hand her the drink carrier. Inside: a second coffee, an empty to-go cup holding a mini bouquet of matching flowers, and a brown paper bag with a chocolate croissant.

Her eyes widen. “What’s all this?”

“Coffee for later. I know you—you’ll finish that first one before we hit the freeway and wish you had another. Problem solved.” I grin. “And flowers, because of course I’m going to get you flowers, Ivy. And your favorite breakfast from your favorite coffee shop.”

Her eyes fill, shining with emotion. “How are you so good at this?”

I start the engine and glance her way. “I love you. That’s how.”

She takes a sip, then reaches over to lace her fingers with mine.

And with her hand in mine and a heart full of anticipation, I pull away from the curb—ready for whatever this day brings.

An hour and twenty eight minutes. That’s how long the GPS says it’ll take to get to Ashen Mills, where her parents’ live. But I wouldn’t mind if it took four hours.

Ivy’s legs are curled under her, coffee in hand, humming to the playlist she queued up on my phone. It’s a chaotic mix of country and early 2,000’s and somehow every song feels like it’s underscoring the movie that is today.

“Okay,” she says after a few minutes of quiet, tapping the lid of her cup. “Top three songs of all time. No skipping, no overthinking. Go.”

“Easy,” I say. “Oceans by Hillsong. Starting Over by Chris Stapleton. And…” I shoot her a look, grinning, “The Middle by Jimmy Eat World. Don’t judge me.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and then she laughs. “Wow. That’s actually…respectable. Worship song, soulful country, and peak 2000s emo? You’re a mystery, Gray.”

I shake my head, chuckling as I merge onto the highway. “You say that like you don’t scream-sing ‘The Middle’ every time it comes on. ”

“I do not…”

“You absolutely do.”

“Okay, fine,” she admits. “But only because it still hits.”

We’ve been driving for about an hour, and it’s been pure magic.

Ivy’s sipping her second coffee—because of course she downed the first one before we even hit the highway—and singing along to some acoustic cover of an old country song like it’s her personal concert.

My fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel, but my heart’s wrapped around her.

Every time I glance over, I’m a little more undone.

And then—I can't take it anymore.

Without a word, I ease off the highway and pull into a random parking lot.

Ivy looks at me, eyebrows knit. “Everything okay?”

I don’t answer. I just put the truck in park and open my door.

“Gray?” she calls, confused.

I round the front of the truck, heart thudding. She watches me with wide eyes as I open her door.

“Gray, what…”

But I don’t let her finish.

I lean in and kiss her.

Not a quick peck. Not a hesitant maybe.

A full, breath-stealing, heart-stopping kiss.

Her hand fumbles with the coffee cup before tossing it into the holder, reaching up instead to tangle in my jacket. She kisses me back like she’s been waiting for this since the second she got in the car .

And maybe she has.

When I finally pull back, I tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear.

Then I grin.

“Sorry, just felt like kissing you.” I say, stepping back and shutting her door like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

I hear her laugh through the window as I jog back to my side.

And as I pull back onto the road, her hand finds mine again—like it always belonged there.

By the time we pull up to Ivy’s childhood home in Ashen Mills, a small suburb in North Texas, the late morning sun is shining bright, casting a soft golden hue over the neighborhood.

The driveway is packed. I squeeze the truck into a tight spot behind a red minivan and glance over at Ivy. She’s beaming already, eyes lit with the kind of joy that only comes from being home.

The sound of laughter and music leaks through the front door like a warm invitation.

“You ready?” she asks, smoothing down her dress.

“Nope,” I say, grabbing the bouquet from the backseat, “but I’m still walking in there with you.”

She glances at me, biting back a grin. “You know, I told my dad you had a tattoo. Not that you were covered in them.”

I smirk, leaning closer as I hand her the flowers. “Great. So when he starts polishing his shotgun, I’ll just flex and tell him it’s art appreciation.”

Her laugh bubbles out, and the tension melts just a little.

She adjusts the gold bracelet on her wrist as we walk up the short path to the door. “You know I’m kinda bummed the big bouquet isn’t for me.” she teases, nodding toward the flowers.

“Absolutely not. These are for your mom. You already got your two coffees, a mini version, a croissant and the playlist of songs on the drive here. Don’t get greedy.”

She elbows me as I grin and reach for the door.

It swings open almost immediately, and we’re hit with a wave of warmth—both from the heater and from the sheer volume of Ivy’s family packed into every inch of the entryway.

“Aunt Icy!” A little girl calls, and I give her a sideways glance, making a mental note to ask her about that name later. Then it’s just noise. Shouts, hugs, laughter, kids weaving through legs, the smell of cinnamon rolls and turkey and whatever holiday magic is bubbling in the kitchen.

Ivy’s nieces and nephews tackle her before I even make it across the threshold, their squeals filling the entryway. She’s laughing, arms full of kids, and I can’t help but grin as I step inside with the flowers tucked under my arm.

Her mom is there in a heartbeat, eyes soft as they land on me. “Gray,” she says warmly, pulling me straight into a hug before I can even hand her the bouquet.

I chuckle, holding out the flowers once she lets go. “These are for you. Figured they might last longer than another pie.”

Her face lights up as she takes them, inhaling the scent. “ They’re beautiful. Ivy told me you bring her flowers all the time.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I scratch the back of my head. “She might exaggerate a little.”

“Mm, I don’t think she does.” Her mom’s smile widens, a knowing kind of smile.

Before I can answer, Ivy’s dad steps forward.

He’s taller than I expected, shoulders broad, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicks briefly to my tattoos.

For a second, my stomach knots, but then his mouth breaks into a grin.

He clasps my hand in a firm shake before tugging me into a quick hug.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” he says, voice warm but carrying the kind of weight that makes me want to stand a little straighter.

“You too, sir,” I manage, grateful for the approval tucked in his tone.

The whirlwind continues as Ivy gets pulled deeper into the house, swallowed up by laughter and chatter. I follow, my pulse still quick from the introductions, and nearly collide with a woman holding the hand of a little girl.

“Oops—sorry,” I say quickly.

The woman smiles, tilting her head. Her resemblance to Ivy is unmistakable. “You must be Gray. I’m Sarah—her sister.” She shifts, gesturing to the little girl peeking shyly from behind her leg. “And this is Kate.”

Kate’s big eyes study me like she’s not sure what to make of me. I crouch a little, offering a smile. “Hi, Kate. I like your bow.”

Her fingers tighten around Sarah’s hand, but a tiny grin tugs at her mouth.

Sarah’s eyes soften. “She’s not usually this shy. Guess you made an impression already. ”

I laugh under my breath, straightening. “Hopefully a good one.”

Her smile is knowing, it makes me wonder how much Ivy’s already told her. “Yeah,” she says. “A good one.”

And just like that, I’m folded into the chaos of Ivy’s family, my heart pounding in the best possible way.

It’s chaos. Absolute, beautiful chaos—voices overlapping, the smell of something sweet baking, kids darting between legs, someone shouting for more ice.

I never had a Thanksgiving like this growing up. Sure, I’ve experienced real holidays with Micah’s family, with their kindness and traditions that made me feel welcome.

But this?

This feels different.

It feels like home.