Page 20

She grins mischievously, tilting her head toward the bedroom. "Now, let’s go finish getting you ready to knock their socks off—and maybe yours, too."

Windy leads me into the bedroom with a theatrical flourish, her grin is as mischievous as ever. "Okay, goddess, let’s transform you into the vision of perfection they’ll regret ever doubting," she declares, pointing me toward the vanity like it’s a throne and I’m about to be crowned.

I plop down, laughing as she surveys the tools of her trade—brushes, palettes, and tubes of every conceivable shade. "You act like a master artist preparing to paint the Sistine Chapel," I tease, earning a dramatic gasp as she clutches her chest.

"Excuse me! This is a work of art in progress," she shoots back, tapping my nose with a makeup brush. "Now, sit still, or I’ll accidentally make you look like a circus clown."

"Accidentally? I feel like that’s your plan all along," I counter with a grin and Windy cackles.

She starts with my hair, carefully brushing it out while humming some over-the-top power ballad, breaking into exaggerated lyrics every few seconds.

"You’re gonna make them cry, wanna die, beg for your time—" she belts, spinning me around in the chair with a flourish.

I dissolve into laughter, nearly toppling over.

"Windy, focus!" I say between giggles, trying to catch my breath. But she shrugs, unrepentant. "Laughter is part of the magic, babe. You can’t be a knockout if you’re tense!"

As she begins curling strands of my hair, I wince slightly from the heat of the iron. "If you burn me, I’m suing."

"Oh, please," she responds with a mockingly sweet smile, "you’d look fierce with a battle scar. Very femme fatale."

"Maybe for my next date," I say dryly, and we both crack up again.

When she finally moves on to my makeup, Windy’s dedication turns borderline comical. "Close your eyes—wait, no, open them—no, look down. Ugh, you’re the worst model." Her mock frustration has both of us in stitches as I valiantly try to follow her instructions.

At one point, she holds up a bold lipstick. "This shade says ‘confident, sexy, and unattainable.’ Perfect." She pauses. "Or do we go with ‘dangerous and dramatic’ instead? Decisions, decisions."

"How about ‘subtle and approachable’?" I suggest, fighting a smirk.

She gives me a look of pure horror, clutching the lipstick dramatically. "Subtle? Who even are you? No, we’re going bold. If they can’t handle it, that’s their problem."

By the time she’s done, my face feels like a masterpiece, and my cheeks ache from laughing so much. Windy steps back, crossing her arms with an exaggeratedly critical eye. "Hmm. Stunning, radiant, completely out of their league. Yep, my work here is done."

I turn to the mirror, and for a moment, I hardly recognize myself. "Wow, Windy… I actually look—"

"Amazing? Ethereal? Like a goddess descended from the heavens?" she interrupts, preening as if she’s the one on display.

I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. "Yeah, something like that."

She slings an arm around my shoulders. "Now, let’s go knock ’em dead, babe. And remember, if they don’t worship at your feet, I’ve got a backup plan involving a mysterious ‘accidental’ stain on their clothes."

"You’re incorrigible," I laugh as I slip into my dress and heels. I take one last look in the mirror, grabbing my bag as we head out. But in the back of my mind, I know she’s right: tonight is going to be unforgettable.

We parted ways in the driveway. I slipped into my car and made my way to my place of work. That must be why Tripp sat in the parking lot for so many hours the other night. He was casing the place, hoping to see if it was a suitable spot for their second date.

My smile beams brightly in the dark confines of the car as I make my way to Sip-A-Brew.

I’m a little overdressed for the atmosphere there, but I couldn’t care less.

I came dressed to kill. Those guys will be drooling by the time we’re through tonight.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get an invite to come back to their place.

I’m not usually so forward, but when it comes to something I want, I go all in. Their pack is the pack I am. The pack I need. They’re my scent match mates, and I’m ready to start our forever.

The glow of the neon Sip-A-Brew sign flickers in the corner of my windshield as I pull into the lot, easing my car into a spot near the edge with a view of the whole scene.

My headlights sweep over rows of vehicles—sedans, pickup trucks, and a few sleek motorcycles gleaming under the faint streetlights.

Each parked car feels like a clue, a possibility, a piece of the story waiting to unfold tonight.

I let the engine hum to silence, taking a moment to linger in this bubble of quiet before stepping into the buzz of the night.

My fingers grip the wheel as my eyes dart from one car to the next, wondering who’s already inside, which faces I’ll see when I walk through those doors.

The anticipation twists in my chest, exhilarating, almost electric.

The parking lot is alive with small moments—a group of friends laughing as they hop out of a truck, a solitary figure leaning against a car, scrolling through their phone while the faint puff of a cigarette dances in the air.

It’s a mix of familiarity and mystery, like a canvas half-painted but begging for the brushstrokes to finish it.

I adjust the rearview mirror, catching my own reflection for one last check.

My bold lips and shimmering eyes stare back at me with a confidence I’m determined to carry inside.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I step out into the cool night, heels clicking softly against the pavement.

The air smells faintly of rain and coffee, a perfect prelude to the night ahead.

As I cross the lot, I glance back at my car, a fleeting thought brushing my mind—tonight could change everything. And with that, I push open the door to Sip-A-Brew, ready to steal the spotlight and claim what’s mine.

I wave to Charlene as I step into the coffee shop.

She does a double-take, running her eyes up and down my form.

She smiles approvingly, giving me two thumbs up for my efforts.

I smile at her, a blush creeping up onto my cheeks.

I love that she loves my outfit, hair, and makeup. Hopefully, the guys will love it too.

I take a seat in the only booth available. It’s toward the back, out of earshot of the other people here. It’s not a romantic spot, but it doesn’t mean I can’t make the best of it. Anything can be romantic as long as you have the right company and the right mindset.

I settle into the booth, leaning back against the soft cushion as my fingers trace idle patterns along the edge of the table.

The room hums with life—laughter rising and falling, the clink of mugs meeting saucers, the faint hiss of milk frothing at the barista's station.

My eyes flit over the scene, capturing snippets of every movement, every detail, like pieces in a puzzle slowly coming together.

Across the room, a group of friends lean into their shared stories, their voices spilling over one another in a cheerful cacophony.

Near the counter, a person taps their fingers impatiently, glancing at their watch as if counting down the seconds for their order.

A couple by the window exchange soft smiles, their quiet intimacy like a bubble set apart from the lively din around them.

I scan for them—Tripp, Knox, and Boone—my heart picking up its pace every time a new face enters my field of vision.

Who will walk through next? Who will meet my gaze, even for the briefest flicker of a moment?

The possibilities ripple through me, each one a spark fanning the flames of my anticipation.

My fingers tap lightly against my thigh, a restless rhythm that matches the charge in the air.

The booth feels like a stage, and I am both performer and audience, watching the ebb and flow of stories unfolding around me while waiting for my own to begin.

The neon lights outside cast soft reflections on the polished surfaces inside, their glow mingling with the warm light of overhead lamps—an ambiance that feels both intimate and infinite.

I weave through the faces, the motions, and the laughter, building subtle narratives for each person I see.

The barista calls out an order, and my gaze follows the steaming cup as it’s claimed by a young man in a leather jacket.

He pauses, scanning the room, and for a fleeting moment, our eyes meet.

My lips curl into a slow, deliberate smile, my confidence unwavering as I wait for the night to reveal its secrets.

Time stretches and shortens, bending with the rhythm of my thoughts as I sit there, eyes roaming over every heartbeat, every hush, every thread of connection. Tonight is still an unwritten story, and I am ready to turn the page.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but I know it’s been a while. I keep reaching for my phone in my purse and checking the time. Hour after hour, I sit and wait. My mood doesn’t dull in the slightest, as I know they still have a few minutes until it’s time for them to get here.

Yes, I got here early. I was too excited to stay at home, and I needed to be doing something—anything to get the excited jitters under control.

However, eight o’clock comes and goes. My body stays stock still in the booth, never once getting up and leaving for fear that someone else will grab it and take it away from me.

At first, the excitement bubbling within me refuses to waver.

I tap my fingers on the smooth tabletop, a rhythm of anticipation, my mind filling with images of laughter and conversation.

I even smile to myself, letting the hum of the café wrap around me like a warm blanket.

Every time the door swings open, my heart leaps, only to settle back down when it isn’t them.

But as the minutes stretch into longer intervals, my tapping slows and eventually fades.

The vibrant glow of hope begins to dim, like a candle flickering against a gentle draft.

I glance at my phone again—8:15 now. Perhaps there’s traffic, I tell myself.

Or maybe they’re parking. My thoughts dart to plausible explanations, grasping at them like lifelines.

I remind myself that there’s no need to worry, even as a faint unease stirs at the edges of my mind.

By 8:30, the unease starts to seep in, uninvited and persistent.

My eyes wander over the café, not with curiosity now, but with a subtle ache of searching.

Each passing glance of strangers feels sharper, their laughter and chatter somehow louder, as if reminding me of the silence that lingers on my end.

The warmth of the room begins to feel heavier, pressing down on me with each passing second.

I recheck my phone. My grip tightens on it this time, the cool surface grounding me, if only for a moment.

8:40. My leg starts to bounce beneath the table, a quiet betrayal of the worry blooming in my chest. Maybe they’ve forgotten.

The thought slithers in, unwelcome but unavoidable, sending a ripple of doubt through me.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge it, but it clings like cobwebs in a dark corner.

The booth, once a cozy refuge, now feels confining, as though the walls are inching closer.

I glance toward the door—still no sign of them.

My hands find the edge of the table again, but this time, the patterns I trace are no longer idle; they are deliberate, restless as if carving out the shape of my concern.

I start to wonder if I made a mistake. Did I miscommunicate the time?

The place? My thoughts circle back on themselves, a whirlwind of uncertainties.

By 9:00, my smile is long gone, replaced by a subtle tightening of my jaw.

The rest of the café carries on as though nothing is amiss, but to me, every sound feels magnified—the scrape of a chair, the hiss of the espresso machine, the quiet murmurs of conversation blending into a low hum.

The world moves on without pause, while I sit there, suspended in a growing silence that feels personal, almost pointed.

I check my phone one last time, the screen lighting up with the same numbers I dread to see.

My heart, once alight with excitement, now beats slower, heavier, as if weighed down by the uncertainty of the night.

And yet, I stay. For reasons I cannot fully explain, I remain rooted to the booth, clinging to the fragile hope that the night still has something left to offer.

My mood has officially soured to the point where I’m debating whether to go home or stay for just a little longer. I know Knox is a very important person, so perhaps something unexpected came up that he couldn’t get out of. Maybe they forgot to message me and let me know.

My phone chooses that moment to ding in my purse right after I drop it.

I dive for it, a new sense of energy rushing through my veins.

When my hand touches the cool, slick metal, I bring it out and tap the screen.

And what I see staring back at me causes my heart to drop out of my chest and into my stomach.