Page 15

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. The worst idea.

“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” I said, holding up a dress like it personally offended me. “And if you say closure, I'll throw this hanger at your head.”

Carol, comfortably perched on the edge of my bed with a glass of wine and a bag of pretzels, barely looked up. “You didn’t agree to this for closure . You agreed to this because you’re still wildly in love with him and your soul lights on fire every time he breathes near you.”

I blinked. “How much wine have you had?”

“Not enough to make your drama any more tolerable.”

I groaned and flopped face-first onto the bed. “This is a disaster. I haven’t had a real date in years. I don’t even know what people talk about anymore. Do I ask about his health insurance? His five-year plan? If he’s emotionally stable enough to date someone he ghosted for ten years?”

Carol took another sip. “Breathe, Marshmallow.”

I lifted my head and glared at her. “Don’t call me that. That’s Gabe’s name for you .”

“Oh, sorry. Princess of Panic. Better?”

I threw a pillow at her. She ducked and smirked.

“You look great, by the way,” she added. “Even in sweatpants.”

“Not helpful.”

She stood and took the dress from my hand. “Okay, this one is a no. Try the black one. The one with the halter neckline.”

“The one that makes me look like I’m trying too hard?”

“No, the one that makes you look like a woman who might finally be ready to stop hiding behind menu tastings and sarcasm and just say she still wants the guy.”

I sighed. “You’re insufferable.”

“That's why you love me so much.”

I slipped into the black dress and turned to the mirror. It was… good. Flattering, in a simple way. A little soft around the waist, but nothing a posture adjustment couldn’t fix.

Carol appeared behind me and gave a nod of approval. “Light makeup. Barely-there gloss. Tiny earrings. You’re going for I’m effortlessly thriving, not I cried into my salad last week. ”

“I did cry into my salad last week.”

“And now you’re going to eat bread with the man who made you do it. Full circle.”

I exhaled slowly, reaching for my lip balm. “This still feels dangerous.”

She stepped behind me, put both hands on my shoulders, and squeezed. “That’s because it is. Love is always a risk. But you’re a grown woman now, El. You can handle a little fire.”

I stared at my reflection; my hair was a mess as always, but the dress did make me look a little thinner—my hips had started flaring during my éclair recipe exploration period. The makeup was soft, but didn't hide how nervous I looked.

I whispered, “What if he hurts me again?”

Carol didn’t miss a beat. “Then we kill him. Together. I know where Henry keeps the shovels.”

That got a laugh out of me—small, but real.

I stood up straighter, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Carol grinned. “Go get your bear, baby.”

Just then, the doorbell chimed, and I nearly dropped the clutch I had just picked up. My heart startled out of my chest, and the glimpse I caught of myself in the mirror reminded me of the proverbial deer in the headlights.

"He's early," I exclaimed with a loud exhale.

"He has a lot of ground to make up, now go," Carol pushed me into the living room and retreated back into the bedroom, only partially closing the door so she could watch the show Patrick and I were about to put on.

I threw one last glance at her as I grabbed the door handle in a death grip, and she made a zipping motion in front of her lips.

She didn't want Patrick to know that she was here.

She worried we would feel obligated to invite her to come with us, and she wasn't wrong; a twinge of guilt already gnawed at my insides.

That guilt vanished, however, the moment I opened the door and looked at Patrick. Hell, I had noticed before how much more handsome he had gotten, but wearing a suit and tie, he was a real knockout.

"You look beautiful," he said, holding out a bouquet of lilies—my favorites, oh heart, be still, don't beat a mile a minute just because he remembered!

"Thank you. You remembered," I exclaimed.

"It's hard to forget any details about you, Ells," he said, so smoothly that my heart decided to skip a few beats of its wild pounding.

"Come on in. I'll just put them in a vase," I waved him in, pretending I hadn't spent the entire day cleaning. Not that I was a messy person or anything, but flour does have a way of getting into the weirdest spots, especially when you use it a lot.

"This is nice." Patrick looked around the spacious area. It was an open concept with a kitchen, dining, and living room. I could have afforded something more than just an apartment these days, but it was just me, and I didn’t need a lot of room.

Most days, I worked for ten hours at the restaurants anyway.

I opened a cupboard and was about to climb up on the counter—yes, I'm that short—to reach a vase, when I felt his presence behind me. Like right behind me. Like his body pressing into my back.

"Allow me," his voice was deep and seductive, although he was only trying to help. I couldn't stop myself. I leaned into him; it was as if my body was magically pulled. The moment only lasted a second, but the intense emotions he inflamed in me were there to stay.

"Thank you." I took the vase with shaking hands and filled it with water, while he took the plastic wrapper off the flowers, cut the rubber band around the stems, and poured the contents of a little packet of flower food into the water.

The sound of a low thump from the bedroom caught our attention.

"What was that?" Patrick asked, already making a move to the bedroom.

I caught the back of his jacket and pulled him back, well, not really pulled, because there was no way for me to pull that massive man anywhere, but he stopped. "Nothing, are you ready to go?"

His entire posture screamed he wasn't. He wanted to know who or what was in my bedroom, but he seemed to realize that he had no rights here. He sighed, and I had mercy on him. I whispered, "Carol is hiding in there. She didn't want to end up being the third wheel."

His expression eased, and a quiet chuckle escaped him. "Then we’d better go."

He offered me his arm, and I took it. We stepped out into the early evening light, where he led me to his truck, opening the door for me like a gentleman.

He had always been thoughtful that way. Except when he broke your heart, real gentlemanly like , my mind snarked, and I told it to shut up, because this was a fresh start.

We drove in silence for a bit, and I realized he wasn’t taking us back into town. Instead, we were driving toward Cedar Hollow. My curiosity grew when he took a little side road that led deeper into the woods.

"It's not a long walk," Pats said when he stopped the truck and came around to help me out. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you," he pointed at my shoes.

"It's alright," I waved his concern off, unless we were going on a mile-long hike, it would be okay.

He took my hand and led me down a surprisingly paved path that wound through the trees and dipped into the western edge of the Hollow.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You’ll see.”

Patrick smiled like a man with a secret, and I hated how much I wanted to know what it was. My heels clicked softly on the gravel, but he slowed his pace without my asking—like he always used to when I wore shoes that made me two inches taller and thirty percent clumsier.

After a few minutes of walking, I saw lights. Tiny, warm fairy lights strung between trees, their soft glow flickered through branches like fireflies caught mid-dance. They lit a narrow wooden bridge that stretched over a stream and led to a small open-air structure on the other side.

It was… magical.

Rustic wood beams formed a frame overhead, draped in ivy and more lights. A table stood at the center, already set with linen napkins, mismatched vintage plates, and flickering candles inside glass jars. The scent of fresh herbs and something baking drifted faintly in the breeze. My breath caught.

“You did this?” I asked.

He nodded. “It’s part of a future event space for the Hollow. It's not open to the public yet, so I figured…” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly boyish. “Might as well put it to good use.”

I turned in a slow circle, taking in the firepit off to one side, the stack of handmade blankets, the bottle of wine chilling in a tin pail.

“Did Carol help you plan this?” I asked, trying not to get emotional over a patch of fairy lights and a very well-positioned bouquet of wildflowers.

“Nope.” His grin widened. “Carol’s better at threats. This was all me.”

I turned back to him.

“You’ve changed.”

“Yeah.” He said, stepping closer, voice low. “But the important parts? The ones that always loved you?” He reached up and tucked a curl behind my ear, his fingers barely brushing my skin. “Those never went anywhere.”

I was about to make a joke. Deflect. Redirect. Anything to stop the feelings from surging so fast, they left me lightheaded. Instead, I said, “Then you better sit me down and feed me something spectacular . Because if I’m letting you try again… it better be damn worth it.”

Patrick’s smile turned roguish. “Oh, don’t worry, Chef. I’ve got appetizers, a main course, and at least three kinds of dessert.”

“Ambitious.”

“I’m trying to earn my second chance.” He replied with an expression on his face that was hard to describe.

It was rueful, guilty, hopeful, and so insecure, it nearly tripped me.

Thankfully, he offered me a chair, and as I sat, the candles flickered just enough to light the quiet hope behind his eyes.

The first bite shut me up. I blamed the bread. It was warm, soft in the center, with a perfect golden crust and a whisper of garlic and herbs. I didn’t even like garlic bread that much. But this—this was homemade. And it was perfect .

I stared down at the slice in my hand like it had personally betrayed me. “You made this?”