Page 18 of Embers in Autumn

Amber

My wardrobe looked like a tornado had torn through it. Every hanger stripped, every half-decent option tossed across the bed in a heap that mocked me. Tops, skirts, a dress I hadn’t worn since my cousin’s wedding, jeans that felt too casual. Nothing seemed right.

I paced the length of the room, hair swishing around my shoulders, still warm from the blow dryer.

I’d spent forever washing and drying it just so, letting it fall smooth and glossy the way my grandmother used to say made me look “polished.” A little foundation, eyeliner, and a beige lip gloss had taken care of my face—enough to look awake, not enough to scream trying too hard.

But the clothes… God.

This wasn’t just dinner. It was dinner at Dean’s house.

With his daughter. That thought alone made my palms sweat.

I wanted to look appealing, yes, because my body had already made its stance on Dean very clear.

But I also needed Lana to see someone she could trust, not some stranger trying too hard.

I tried on a pale blouse, stared at myself in the mirror, and ripped it off two minutes later. Too stiff. I pulled on jeans and a cardigan. Too plain. Another dress. Too low cut. Another. Too long.

By the time the bed looked like a crime scene, I was ready to scream.

Finally, my eyes landed on a black dress I hadn’t touched since moving here.

Simple, above the knee, fitted just enough to suggest shape but not scream it.

I paired it with a scarf in warm amber tones—it made my hair glow, and the irony of wearing “my color” wasn’t lost on me.

Black boots grounded it. Clean. Neat. A little chic.

I breathed out. This worked.

Grabbing my autumn coat and my purse, I checked my reflection one last time in the mirror. My cheeks were already flushed with nerves, but at least I looked like someone who had her act together. Even if my stomach was in knots.

The taxi horn beeped faintly outside. I hurried down, locking the shop door behind me, and slid into the back seat.

As the driver pulled away, I pressed a hand to my lap to stop it from shaking. Dinner with Dean. Dinner with his daughter. God, what was I doing?

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of a small, tidy house with a wide porch and light spilling from the windows. My heart thumped harder than it had any right to. I smoothed my scarf and took a steadying breath before stepping out into the cool evening air.

The door opened before I even knocked. Dean stood there in a dark sweater and jeans, broad and solid, a smile pulling at his mouth. The sight of him loosened something in me.

“You made it,” he said, voice warm.

“I did,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d almost turned the taxi around twice.

He leaned down and brushed a kiss against my cheek. Just a simple kiss, polite even—but my skin burned where his lips had been.

The house smelled incredible. Cream, cheese, herbs, a richness that clung to the air like comfort. I followed him inside, and there was Lana at the table, already setting down three glasses of juice with the seriousness of a hostess.

“Hi,” she said, not shy, just direct.

“Hi, Lana.” I pulled a small bag from my purse. “I brought you something.”

Her eyes widened as she peeked inside. Three paperbacks—one mystery for her age group, one fantasy with a fierce heroine, and one illustrated novel that mixed words and pictures in a way I thought she might like.

“For me?” she asked, almost disbelieving.

“For you,” I said. “I thought maybe we could talk about them, if you like.”

Her grin was sudden and bright. “I’ve wanted to read this one for months,” she said, holding up the fantasy. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” I said, relief loosening my chest.

Dean’s eyes met mine briefly, gratitude written in the soft curve of his mouth.

Dinner was… perfect. The pasta bake was bubbling and golden, the tuna tender and rich, the sauce creamy with just enough herbs to make it sing. Lana declared it better than last time, and Dean groaned, muttering something about her keeping score.

“It’s delicious,” I said honestly, and Dean’s ears went just a little pink as he scooped more onto my plate.

Afterward, instead of letting the evening drift into polite silence, Lana pulled out a board game from the shelf.

Something with dice and cards and silly tokens.

We spread it across the coffee table, laughter coming easy as Dean fumbled rules and Lana corrected both of us with the confidence of a champion.

At one point, Dean leaned close, his shoulder brushing mine as he reached for a card. The warmth of him stayed even after he leaned back. Lana caught me smiling and grinned wider herself, like she approved of something I hadn’t realized I was showing.

After the last round of the game, Lana jumped up and tugged at my hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

I followed her up the stairs, the soft creak of wood under our steps, until she pushed open the door to her room.

It was tidy but lived-in, the walls dotted with posters and shelves lined with books.

Not just random ones, but carefully arranged—some with sprayed edges, others stacked in little rainbow patterns.

“This is my library,” she said proudly, spreading her arms like she’d just unveiled a treasure hoard.

I stepped closer, running my fingers lightly along a row of spines. “You’ve got some really nice editions here,” I said, spotting a hardcover with a shimmering sprayed edge. “This one’s gorgeous.”

Her grin widened. “Dad doesn’t get why it matters, but they look so cool. Some of them are limited runs, too.”

“Trust me, I get it,” I said. “A special edition is like… a book lover’s crown jewel.”

We went through a few of her favorites, Lana animated as she pulled down copies and told me what she liked about each. It was like looking into a younger version of myself, the same enthusiasm, the same hunger for stories.

“So, at the Halloween party,” she said suddenly, flopping onto her bed. “You’re really doing book prizes for costumes?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I already set aside a stack for winners. Did you think of a costume yet?”

Her face scrunched into a pout. “I wanted to go as Rumi from K-Pop Demon Hunters, but Dad said no.”

“Why no?” I asked gently.

“Because he is old and said the skirt is too short,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I said it's not a skirt there're shorts. Shorts are suppose to be short ! She’s a demon hunter, not a librarian.”

“He might have a point. It is cold in October.”

She huffed, falling back against her pillows. “So now I have to go as something boring.”

“What about Katniss?” I suggested. “The Hunger Games. Strong, fierce, still iconic.”

Her eyes lit just a little. “Katniss would be cool… but Dad can’t braid hair to save his life, and Aunt Claire works late that night.”

“That’s easy,” I said. “Come to the bookstore a little earlier before the party. I’ll do the braid for you.”

Her whole face lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” I promised.

That smile of hers hit me right in the chest. She looked so much like Dean when she smiled with her whole face like that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Turning my head, I saw Dean leaning in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. His expression was soft, almost unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—warmth, maybe a little awe—that sent a flutter racing through me.

I pretended to focus back on Lana’s bookshelf, but I felt that gaze linger on me like a touch, steady and grounding, as if he was memorizing this small, ordinary moment and tucking it away somewhere safe.

Dean’s voice finally broke the quiet, gentle but firm. “Alright, kiddo. Almost time for bed. You’ve got school in the morning.”

Lana groaned but didn’t argue, rolling off the bed and hugging the fantasy novel I’d given her. “Fine,” she muttered, though her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Dean glanced at me apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I can’t take you home tonight. Lana gets spooked if I leave her in the house alone after dark.”

Before I could answer, Lana piped up, “I don’t get spooked. I just don’t like creaky noises.”

“That’s alright. I understand completely.”

Dean’s relief flickered across his face, subtle but real. He walked me downstairs, the house settling into its nighttime hush. The lights were softer, the smell of dinner still clinging in the air. My chest tightened at how easy it all felt, like slipping into a rhythm I hadn’t known I’d missed.

Outside, the taxi headlights cut across the driveway. Dean opened the door for me, the cool night air wrapping around us.

“I’m free in the morning,” he said, his voice lower now, almost testing the words. “Maybe I’ll stop by the bookstore for coffee.”

My smile came without effort. “I’d love that.”

For a second, neither of us moved. The flowers he’d set aside on the console table caught my eye—warm yellows and reds, glowing even in the dim porch light. He picked them up, held them out to me. “These are for you.”

My throat tightened. I reached for them, my fingers brushing his, and before I lost my nerve, I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. The rough warmth of his stubble grazed my lips, and I pulled back just in time to see surprise flicker into something softer in his eyes.

“Good night, Dean,” I said quietly.

“Good night, Amber,” he replied, steady and warm.

I climbed into the taxi clutching the flowers to my chest, the scent wrapping around me like a promise. As the car pulled away, I caught one last glimpse of him on the porch, hands in his pockets, watching me go.

My heart raced, my lips tingled, and in the back seat of that taxi I thanked my lucky stars he hadn’t mentioned the texting from the other night. Because if he had, I wasn’t sure my blush would have ever faded.