At thirty, Charlotte Whitaker had a life she loved—a very good one, in fact. She worked for a wildly successful media and events company in New York City. Her job was to pair celebrities with luxury brands for events, red carpets, and campaigns. She knew which actress was about to become the next face of a French fashion house before the publicist.

Charlotte wore beautiful clothes, attended beautiful parties, and knew beautiful people. But at the end of her swoon-worthy days, her favorite place was on her couch, in her pajamas, crocheting and watching Ted Lasso.

Charlotte had a theory about men in New York City: they weren’t like her and definitely not what she was looking for. She had dated enough of them to know that men with her values didn’t exist in the city, which is why she’d stopped looking.

Charlotte loved Alabama, where Sunday lunch (after church) was always at Big Mama’s and nobody thought twice about adding another chair to the table. It was full of people who called their parents because they wanted to, not because they had to. It was where your brothers could annoy you half to death one minute but still be the first people you’d call when something wonderful happened.

Charlotte missed home more than she wanted to admit. She FaceTimed her two brothers every single day—sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for fifty. Sometimes they’d just sit on the phone together while they worked.

She wanted a husband to fit into her world but felt pretty confident that a man who believed in family, faith, character, and loyalty wasn’t in New York. The men here were ambitious, successful, and attractive, but family, faith, and loyalty didn’t seem to be at the top of their list. Those men seemed harder to find.

Since Charlotte often worked events at night, she got off work at 4 pm. It was the best part of her day. She’d escape for a run to Pier 15, get some sun, and sit with her thoughts.

It was 4:30 pm on a Thursday when Charlotte had run a few miles to the pier and made her way onto the elevated lawn. She was wearing black biker shorts, a cropped white tank, sneakers, and oversized sunglasses. Her workday had been brutal, and she had exactly thirty minutes before she needed to head home to get dressed for a movie premiere red carpet.

Before heading home, she stretched on the lawn which overlooked the river.

She was sitting in the grass when she heard the unmistakable sound of a dog running toward her. Charlotte lifted her head and saw a beautiful golden retriever barreling across the grass right for her.

She laughed, “Hi, sweet boy.” This was apparently the wrong thing to say because the dog sped up. “Wait.”

He reached her, planted two enormous paws against her shoulders, and sent her backward onto the grass. Charlotte gasped, “Oh my gosh!” then laughed.

The golden retriever seemed delighted with himself. He lowered his body beside her, wedging himself into the crook of her arm for a snuggle like he’d known her for years. Then, he began licking her face profusely.

She laughed uncontrollably, too weak with laughter to push him away. “Okay! I surrender!”

Suddenly, a deep voice rang out, “Thor!”

The voice came from somewhere behind her. It immediately stopped the slobber bath. Charlotte looked up and completely understood why Thor had abandoned her so quickly.

The man jogging toward her was, frankly, too gorgeous to comprehend—tall, athletic, dark hair beneath a backwards baseball cap, green t-shirt clinging in all the right places, enhancing his sea-glass green eyes.

He looked like he belonged in a Lululemon ad rather than a Manhattan park. He gave her a charming smile, but not a polite smile, an “I’ve caught you checking me out” smile.

“I’m so sorry. I’m not sure what came over him.”

Charlotte pushed herself up onto her elbows and started to stand. “Don’t be sorry. Luckily, I love dogs.”

He offered her a hand, which she accepted, noticing how his big, strong hand enveloped hers. The scrape of his calluses sent a chill down her spine.

“He doesn’t usually do things like this.”

She looked at the golden retriever, who was now sitting beside her with the satisfied expression of a dog who had just accomplished exactly what he had set out to do.

“He seems like a very sweet boy,” she said in a doggie baby voice, which Thor loved immensely.

“Usually, he’s a little less…aggressive.” Charlotte looked down at the dog. Thor leaned against her hip.

“I don’t know. I kind of like him as he is.”

Jack extended a hand. “I’m Jack.”

She took it. “Charlotte.” Jack’s grip was firm, and he didn’t let go immediately as their eyes met.

Then Thor nudged Charlotte’s leg with his enormous head. She looked down.

“He likes you,” Jack rumbled.

She bent down to give his ears a good scratch. “I gathered that. I mean, you aren’t necessarily playing hard to get, are you, Thor?”

After a few seconds, Charlotte looked up at Jack, and there it was, a dangerously charming smile. The kind that could definitely mean trouble. She couldn’t help but smile in response.

Her piercing dimple appeared in her right cheek.

Jack’s eyes dropped to it. He noticed, and she noticed him noticing. Thor sighed dramatically and started nosing Charlotte’s hand for more attention.

Jack laughed, “So, Charlotte. Do you run here often?”

Charlotte covered her cheeks that were growing pinker by the second.

Jack took a step closer. “Am I embarrassing you?”

“Yes, that was the worst opening line,” she continued covering her blush.

“I know, but I don’t really care.”

“You are very confident.”

“I am.” There was no arrogance in it, just certainty. “So, do you?”

“I do,” Charlotte replied.

Jack smiled and grabbed Thor’s leash as if to leave.

“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow?” Charlotte questioned.

He shrugged, as if saying, why not. “Four-thirty.”

It wasn’t a question. He walked away.

Charlotte stared after him. She thought, absolutely not, but smiled anyway.

The next day, at exactly 4:30, Jack was there. Charlotte told herself she was surprised, but for some reason, she wasn’t.

Jack looked up from where he was sitting on the lawn and immediately smiled.

“Right on time,” he said, standing up.

“You’re here.”

“I told you I would be. I’m a man of my word, especially with things I’m truly interested in.”

Charlotte’s dimple appeared again. Jack’s eyes dropped to it.

“You keep looking at my cheek. Is something wrong with my face?”

“I like your dimple,” he said unashamed.

She touched it instinctively.

“It’s just a dimple.”

“No,” his voice lowered, “it’s not.”

And there it was, the strange combination that Charlotte couldn’t quite figure out: confidence without arrogance, directness without threat, masculinity without needing everyone to know it.

“So, what exactly do you do, Jack? Not many guys I know have the freedom to be out of the office at 4:30 pm.”

“I do. I’m a partner at a trading firm.”

She stopped walking. “You’re a trader?”

“Yep.”

“And you just leave?”

“Yep.”

“And you just decided that 4:30 was a good time to walk your dog?” she laughed

He looked at her. “When I first met you, it was my first time doing that. Now, I chose 4:30 because that’s when you’d be here.”

Charlotte’s stomach did a small flip.

After that, 4:30 became theirs. They didn’t officially call it a date. Jack simply started showing up. They walked and talked about everything. It was more personal and intentional than dates had ever been.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never cried in a movie?” she asked.

“Nope, not once.”

“Die Hard?”

“No.”

“Braveheart?”

“Almost.”

“The Notebook?”

“Okay, maybe The Notebook,” he teased. Charlotte shook her head.

“Are you emotionally stunted?”

“There’s a good possibility, but I sure hope not.”

One afternoon, Charlotte admitted that she crocheted in her spare time.

Afraid he’d see her as boring, she tried to make it sound cooler than it was.

“You crochet?”

“I do. Did that just destroy the image you have of me?”

“I’m just trying to picture you crocheting.”

“Why?”

“Because you spend your days dressing celebrities in couture.”

“And?”

“And now I’m picturing you on the couch making me a blanket.”

She laughed, “You do not want that.”

“I absolutely do. I want one because you made it.” Charlotte smiled at him.

Somewhere along the way, Charlotte began to realize her theory about all New York men might have been wrong. Jack didn’t just ask about her career; he wanted to know about Alabama, her parents, and her brothers. He remembered their names and expressed the desire to meet them on more than one occasion. He listened intently when she talked and remembered everything she said. And when she apologized when her brothers started FaceTiming her, he insisted that she answer and introduce them.

“Charlotte,” he reached for her hand. “I want to meet them.” She answered the call.

Within seconds, her brothers were talking over each other. Jack laughed, and Charlotte watched him with a feeling she couldn’t quite name—except she could. She was falling for him.

A few days later, he reached for her hand and interlaced his fingers between hers, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Jack?” she whispered, staring at their hands. He stopped walking. Thor sat obediently beside them as if he understood the importance of the moment.

Jack lifted Charlotte’s hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. Her heart thumped heavily.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“That sounds dangerous,” Charlotte smiled. Jack squeezed her hand and pulled her a little closer, smiling.

“I’ve enjoyed every one of our ‘four-thirties.’” Jack said intentionally.

“So have I.” They stared at each other for a few beats before Jack continued.

“I’d like to take you out tomorrow night.”

Charlotte’s smile spread slowly across her face. “Tomorrow?”

“Friday night.” He turned her hand over and pressed another kiss to her palm. Charlotte had a hard time focusing.

“And Saturday,” he continued.

“Saturday, too?” Charlotte’s breath caught.

“And Sunday.”

“Jack.”

“And Monday, and Tuesday,” he moved closer. He smelled like cedar and sandalwood. Charlotte took a deep breath to savor the scent.

“You’re not even asking, are you?”

“No.” He simply admitted. He smiled that slow, confident, charming smile that heated her cheeks. “I’m telling you.”

“Every night?” she questioned.

“Every night.” He leaned closer. “Or as many nights as you’ll let me.”

The space between them suddenly felt charged. Charlotte’s dimple appeared, and Jack couldn’t help but look.

“There’s that dimple,” he said more to himself than to her.

“You really like my dimple, don’t you?” She smiled and intentionally deepened it.

“I really, really do.” His thumb brushed over the back of her hand. His hands brushed her cheeks as his fingers got lost in her hair and he pulled her to him. Then, he leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t hurried or tentative. It was warm and certain and had a masculine strength to it that almost brought Charlotte to her knees.

Jack pulled back. “So,” he said, taking her hand again, “Friday night?”

Charlotte bent down to give Thor a good head rub before meeting Jack’s eyes.

“Friday night.”

Jack smiled. “And every night after?”

She laughed. “We’ll see.”

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

As they began walking hand in hand along the river, Charlotte realized something—maybe the best love stories began when you stopped looking—on a beautiful Thursday afternoon with a golden retriever and a man who just happened to show up exactly at 4:30.

Right on time.

The night before Braden and I moved to New Orleans to begin his cancer treatment, I was putting my younger son and daughter to bed, soaking up every last second with them.

When I came downstairs, my husband, Christian, was sitting at our breakfast table with the weight of everything bearing down on him. His hair was mussed, and his head was in his hands.

With red, tired eyes, he looked at me and said, “What if there’s no end to the suffering?”

That night, we turned to scripture, searching as only two people free-falling in an abyss of uncontrollable agony can. We were led to Daniel 3.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are standing before King Nebuchadnezzar, who has commanded them to worship a golden image. Because of their unwavering faith in the Lord, they refuse. The consequence of this is horrific—being burned alive.

They profess to the king that their God is capable of rescuing them, but then they say something truly remarkable.

“But even if he does not…”

Even if.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were ready for deliverance or death. Either way, they knew God would be with them, that He would be glorified, and that He was sovereign.

Christian and I had to come to that same conclusion.

Regardless of what Braden’s and our family’s future held, our future with Christ was secure. He held us—and still holds us—in the palm of His hands, and there was no place we’d rather be—even if that meant suffering greatly.

It was in that moment that we learned one of a thousand valuable lessons: as Christian’s, we shouldn’t live in the “What if,” but in the “Even if.”

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego believed God could save them. They just knew that His goodness didn’t depend on whether He did.

Christian and I were drowning in the “What ifs.” What if the treatment doesn’t work? What if the scans aren’t good? What if our worst fear becomes reality? We prayed for Braden’s healing, and we believed God could do it, but somewhere in the middle of the suffering came sanctification. We realized that we had to get to the “Even if.”

We began to understand that the disappointments, the struggles, the things we would never choose for our children are the very things that God uses to strengthen their faith and sanctify their hearts in wonderful ways. Our job isn’t to make their lives perfect or easy; it’s to equip them with where to turn when it isn’t.

Even if the treatment doesn’t work, God is still good. Even if there is no improvement in the scans, God is still sovereign. Even if there’s nothing that can be done, God is still Lord of all. “Even if” doesn’t mean we stop praying for the outcome we desperately want. It means we stop making God’s goodness dependent upon receiving it.

The three men in Daniel didn’t know if they would walk out of that furnace, but they knew the One who would be with them—did. That was enough for them, and it is enough for me too.

As a new school year begins, I know how quickly our minds can become consumed with all the “What ifs.”

What if she doesn’t make friends? What if he struggles? What if they get hurt? What if they make the wrong choice? What if I can’t protect them?

So, this year, I am reminding myself of the lesson I learned in such a profound way five years ago.

I am trading my What ifs for Even ifs.

Even if my child struggles, God will be with them. Even if they are disappointed, God will not leave them. Even if something happens that I never saw coming, God is still sovereign. Even if my prayers are answered differently than I hoped, He is still Lord.

We don’t know what this school year will hold, but God does, so release the What Ifs. Place them in the hands of the One who is good, sovereign, omnipotent, and faithful.

And when fear whispers, “What if?”

Let your steadfast faith reply, “Even if.”

THE SEAPORT/FINANCIAL DISTRICT

With amazing views of the Brooklyn Bridge and the City skyline, this charming neighborhood with amazing restaurants and bookstores is a must-visit.

- McNally Jackson Books

- Mure + Grand Boutique (got some cute treasures here)

- Walk to Stone Street, New York’s oldest street. It is pedestrian-only and renowned for its outdoor dining and vibrant nightlife.

- The best bagels in all of NYC are Liberty Bagel. It’s worth the wait and the walk.

- Have dinner at either Fraunces Tavern, the oldest bar/restaurant in the city and a famous watering hole for many of the founding fathers, or, for something a little more elevated, at Delmonico’s, the birthplace of the Delmonico Steak, Eggs Benedict, and Baked Alaska. Every American President has eaten there, and Mark Twain had his 70^th birthday there. Keep an eye out for celebrities.

BROOKLYN

If loving Brooklyn is wrong, I don’t wanna be right. DUMBO is the perfect way to end the day. It oozes charm and celebrities.

- Walk the Brooklyn Bridge

- Make reservations at Cecconi’s for an amazing Italian waterfront dinner with views of both the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.

- Walk to Brooklyn’s Ice Cream Factory. It is the perfect ending to a perfect day.

- Walk the Brooklyn Bridge back as the city lights and the bridges light up around you.

TRIBECA/SOHO

Tribeca, short for the Triangle Below Canal, and SoHo, short for South of Houston Street, are two of my top three favorite neighborhoods in New York City. With iconic cast-iron buildings, charming cobblestone streets, and endless corners to explore, they’re the kind of places that invite you to slow down. You could easily spend an entire day in the Tribeca/Soho neighborhoods.

- Bubby’s for Brunch (dress cute and the hostess may seat you sooner).

- Walk by T-Swift’s compound at 151-153 Franklin and marvel.

- Bibliothèque Book Shop – a great place to grab a treat and gaze at their amazing art collection.

- Lose yourself in the boutiques along Prince and Spring Streets—and every charming block in between.

- Our favorite boutiques in the area are Clic, Veronica Beard, and the original Kate Spade (who remembers the original Kate Spade Sam Bag from the 90’s)?

- For vintage, check out What Goes Around Comes Around.

GREENWICH VILLAGE

A neighborhood where bohemian culture and history abound.

- Explore Washington Square Park

- Then, walk a few blocks to visit NYU. You can download an APP and take an official college tour.

- Walk past the iconic FRIENDS building

- Take a picture in front of Carrie Bradshaw’s stoop while marveling at the quaint street.

- Visit Cornelia Street, made famous by Taylor and her legendary apartment that houses an indoor pool.

- Comedy Cellar is a must, but for adults only. SNL regulars from the present and the past pop in on any given night.

- Sand – is by far the most well-curated store in the hood.

CHELSEA

- You can’t go to NYC without visiting the HIGH LINE! It is a 1.5-mile-long linear park created on an old abandoned elevated rail line. Hop on at the southernmost point and walk north.

- Get off the High Line and go to Chelsea Market. Located in the original National Biscuit Company (aka Nabisco) Factory. This factory is where the Oreo cookie was invented in 1912. Check out the indoor food hall. All the vendors are amazing.

- Walk from Chelsea Market to Pier 57 and Little Island as the sun sets over the Hudson River.

UPPER EAST SIDE

- One of my top three favorite neighborhoods, this wealthy residential area is full of brownstones, high-end shopping on Madison Avenue, Museum Mile, and Central Park. As a southerner who can’t quite imagine ever living the lifestyle of a New Yorker, I could totally get used to living on the Upper East.

- Start your day at Ralph’s Coffee, Ralph Lauren’s coffee shop. Sit down and enjoy a fabulous breakfast.

- Marvel at Ralph Lauren’s flagship store across the street in the famous Rhinelander Mansion, built in 1894 and styled in the authentic French Renaissance Revival.

- Explore Madison Ave, including Louis Vuitton, Chloe, and the iconic Tiffany’s

- Make your way towards Central Park and walk from the Bethesda Terrace to the Bow Bridge, making your way to a classic New York tradition of lunch at Tavern on the Green.

MY 2 MOST FAVORITE PLACES TO SHOP

- Printemps is a famous French department store at One Wall Street. The store and displays are both aesthetically breathtaking. Even if you don’t buy a thing, it is a “must-visit.” It is curated with luxury fashion, beauty, and amazing dining experiences. They have a sales section that includes Golden Goose, Veja, and more.

- Century 21 is the best place to find designer brands at half the price. They have a “90% off shelf” behind glass doors in a carefully hidden case that you will not want to miss. We got a YSL bag for a fraction of the cost.

By twenty-eight years old, Rosie Collins had become an authority on love, not because she’d experienced much of it, but because she’d written thirteen novels about it. Readers adored her Scottish rogues, Parisian bakeries, Vermont weddings, and billionaire architects with emotional intelligence. Three of her books had landed on the New York Times Best Sellers list, one she hoped would be optioned for film, and every interviewer asked the same question.

“Where do you get your inspiration for romance?”

Rosie had perfected the smile, “Oh, my parents have always modeled what a great relationship looks like, and I love to observe people.” That answer sounded much more charming than admitting she mostly imagined everything.

She lived alone in a fifth-floor walk-up in Manhattan’s West Village with a black, eight-pound toy poodle named Ludacris—Luda for short. Her parents called it ludicrous that she adopted a dog when she’d previously managed to kill a cactus. But the moment they met Luda—with his fluffy little afro, eight pounds of attitude, and the unwavering confidence of a Rottweiler—they agreed there had never been a more appropriately named dog.

Every morning she made coffee, every afternoon she wrote about breathtaking kisses beneath Italian sunsets, and every evening she reheated soup while Ludacris judged her life choices. It wasn’t lonely; it was…efficient.

Love was considerably easier when everyone existed inside Microsoft Word.

The building across the narrow alley had sat empty for months while renovations dragged on. Every morning brought the soundtrack of Manhattan—jackhammers echoing off brick walls, the metallic clatter of scaffolding, and the occasional shouted conversation between construction workers five stories below. Rosie had long since stopped paying attention. Like so many projects in the city, she’d assumed it would remain wrapped in scaffolding indefinitely, another New York landmark that everyone simply learned to walk around.

Then, on a Tuesday morning, Rosie glanced up from watering the one succulent she had somehow managed to keep alive and froze. Someone was standing in the apartment across the alley.

A man.

He was tall, with dark (slightly curly) hair. He wore a white Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms as he wrestled a moving box through the doorway.

It was at that exact moment Rosie discovered she had a profound appreciation for a man with exceptional forearms, and his indeed were exceptional.

As if sensing her, he looked up. Their gazes met. They were around twelve feet away from each other, like standing across from each other in the same room.

Rosie froze as he smiled—not a dramatic movie-star grin, just a warm, crooked smile that somehow felt safe and dangerous all at the same time.

She panicked.

Instead of smiling back like a normal adult, she ducked behind her fiddle-leaf fig. Five seconds later, she realized hiding behind a plant with leaves the size of dinner plates wasn’t exactly subtle.

The next morning, she deliberately ignored the window entirely, even if that meant army crawling across to the kitchen.

She was typing Chapter Twelve when Ludacris would not quit barking. Rosie glanced up. Across the alley, the man was holding a handwritten sign against the glass.

Sorry for scaring you yesterday.

She laughed before she could stop herself.

Then, she found a legal pad.

She wrote:

Sorry for reacting so well.

The man smiled, and Rosie smiled back. Neither of them knew it yet, but their little window-to-window encounter would become the kind of New York story people claimed only happened in movies.

Some mornings they waved while making coffee. Sometimes they held up sarcastic notes. When it rained, they’d both sit near their windows reading.

She learned he preferred jazz. He learned she routinely killed succulents.

He once held up a pizza with questioning eyebrows. She responded by dramatically displaying instant ramen. He feigned horror.

Their first in-person encounter was considerably less graceful.

Rosie hurried into the neighborhood bodega wearing oversized sunglasses, yesterday’s sweatshirt, and pink bunny slippers she had mistaken for loafers. She reached for the last carton of almond milk. Another hand reached too.

“Oh.”

She looked up—Window Guy. His smile appeared immediately.

“You,” he said steady and clear.

“You,” Rosie whispered. They both kept holding the carton.

“I feel like we should arm wrestle for it,” he said teasingly.

Rosie unknowingly inspected his muscular arms and responded before she could stop herself. “I’d lose.”

“I know,” he winked.

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

“You admitted it first.”

She laughed. The cashier looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“I’m Luke,” he said.

“Rosie.”

“The novelist,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Her eyebrows shot upward.

“You know, me?”

“I Googled you after you held up your latest book for quite a while at the window last week.”

She covered her face. “I was moving it.”

“Sure, you were. You looked very proud.” His smile grew. He had a distractingly handsome cleft in his chin as if he were Henry Cavill.

“I was…dusting.” Rosie’s blush deepened.

Luke laughed a deep rumble. “If it helps, I bought it.”

“You…what?”

“It was good.”

“You’ve read it.”

“I cried.”

Rosie blinked. “You cried?”

“There was a dog.”

“There was a dog.” She tried to hide her delight.

“What can I say, I’m emotionally available.”

Now it was Rosie’s turn to laugh. “I can see that.”

He grinned. “So…can I buy you an almond milk?”

After that, chance seemed suspiciously intentional. They ran into each other walking home, waiting for coffee, buying a paper, browsing the same bookstore.

It felt as though Manhattan, which contained nearly nine million people, had quietly decided they should be friends, or maybe, just maybe—more.

One Friday evening, Luke stood outside her building. He wore a navy sweater and looked almost annoyingly handsome.

“I was wondering…” Rosie waited. “There’s a little wine bar three blocks away.”

“I know the one,” she smiled.

“They have string lights.”

“That’s my favorite thing about it,” Rosie said.

“And cheese.”

“And that’s my second,” Rosie teased.

Luke smiled sheepishly. “I thought maybe…”

Seeing him a little unsure almost undid her. So, she did what she’d normally write and saved him.

“Would you like some company?”

He smiled, confidence fully restored. “I’d love some.”

The wine bar glowed beneath amber lights. They ordered two glasses of Cabernet that neither of them knew how to pronounce. Luke shared that he was an architect who designed children’s museums all over the world. Rosie admitted she’d never actually visited half the romantic cities she’d written about.

“You’ve never been to Santorini?” he asked.

“I Googled it aggressively.”

“And Scotland?” he asked. She wondered how he knew about Scotland. That was four books ago.

She gave him her best puppy dog face. “I watched documentaries.”

He laughed so hard the waiter smiled.

“I’ve built an entire career on my imagination,” she said.

“I think that’s more impressive.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“How does someone decide to be an expert on children’s museums?”

“I think realizing how important they are to children. My brother was really sick growing up. When he wasn’t in the hospital, the local children’s museum was his happy place. It was the only place I have memories of us together, being kids. He passed away twenty years ago.”

Rosie put her hand on his. “I’m so so sorry, Luke.” Luke covered her tiny hand with his large, free one.

“I appreciate that, Rosie. It was a long time ago, but it did redirect the course of my life.”

“You never changed your mind about what you wanted to do?”

“Not once.”

“I’ve changed my mind seventeen times just this week,” Rosie teased to lessen the tension.

“You still became exactly who you were meant to be, and I think that is pretty amazing.”

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Weeks turned into months as Luke became part of the rhythm of her days. He gave her his Wi-Fi password when her internet failed. She watered his herbs when work sent him to Boston. He built her bookshelves for her novels. She edited his museum grant applications. Some evenings, they didn’t speak; they simply sat in adjacent windows reading, separated by twelve feet of air and possibility.

Rosie found herself writing differently. Her heroes stopped making grand speeches and sweeping declarations. Instead, they made coffee, walked dogs, and remembered the small things—the anniversary she dreaded, the name of her childhood dog, the story she’d told only once. Love, she realized, wasn’t built on dazzling moments. It was built on someone being so crazy about you that they paid attention to the details.

Then, everything changed. Rosie received the phone call she’d dreamed about for years—Hollywood wanted her newest novel, which meant meetings, press, and Los Angeles. The project would take between six and nine months.

Everyone congratulated her. She smiled through every conversation.

That evening she got her suitcase out and tried to get organized. She stared blankly out the window as, across the alley, Luke noticed.

He held up a note.

Vacation?

She hesitated. Then wrote back.

Yes, work. Will be gone a while.

His smile faded, but he eventually mustered up a smile.

The night before her flight, she couldn’t write, couldn’t pack, couldn’t breathe. She was worthless.

Ludacris paced anxiously.

Finally, Rosie walked downstairs, crossed the alley, and was about to knock when Luke abruptly exited, running into her.

“I was just coming to see you. You’re leaving?”

She nodded.

“For a while.”

“Congratulations?”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I really am so happy for you. Just sad for me,” Luke admitted.

Silence settled between them.

She laughed nervously. “I write love stories.”

“I know.”

“I’ve written thirteen.”

“I’ve read twelve.”

“Twelve?” Rosie said, amazed.

“You kill dogs too often,” he said, obviously a little nervous.

“It happens twice, and they pass away of natural causes.”

“Twice is still too many.”

She smiled, “It won’t happen again.”

Luke nodded, satisfied, regrouping.

She continued, “I don’t actually know how this part works.”

“What part?”

“The real part.”

He stepped closer. “Does anyone?”

Rosie shrugged. “I keep waiting from someone to tell me the right line.”

“There probably isn’t one.”

“So, what do people do?’

“I think…” He took her hand. “…they tell the truth.”

Rosie looked at their joined hands.

“The truth is…” she whispered, “…I’ve spent years inventing extraordinary romances because ordinary ones scared me.”

Luke smiled. “The truth is…” he replied. “…I’ve been mesmerized by you for three months.”

She laughed through unexpected tears. “I’ve rewritten this conversation in my head at least fifty times.”

“I think this version is pretty perfect,” Luke said, stepping closer.

“Better than I could have imagined.”

Luke cupped her jaw and ran a thumb down her cheek and across her lips gently, studying every detail of her eye, her mouth. Then, he leaned in and kissed her gently—not beneath fireworks, not in Paris, not while violins played. He kissed her outside apartment 5B while an ambulance wailed in the distance, and Luda angrily barked from inside Rosie’s apartment because no one had included him in their playdate.

Rosie realized, it was infinitely better than anything she’d ever written.

Six months later, her publisher called.

“The new manuscript is wonderful.” Rosie smiled.

“You think?”

“It feels…different.”

“It is.”

“The romance feels more authentic.”

Rosie looked toward the apartment across the alley. Luke was making coffee. He glanced up and smiled. She smiled back.

“What changed?” her editor asked.

Rosie watched Luke press a handwritten note against his window.

Dinner tonight?

She picked up her own notebook—their notebook.

Only if there’s cheese.

He laughed. Rosie returned to the phone.

“I finally stopped writing the kind of love I imagined, and started writing…” She looked across twelve feet of Manhattan air. “…the kind that quietly grows right outside your window.”

Across the alley, Luke held up one final note.

What has you smiling like that?

She replied

The guy next door.

Eleanor “Ellie” Hartwell had a rule about nights out: never attempt anything that required coordination after nine o’clock.

Unfortunately, nobody had ever told her friends.

“Ellie!” Lucy grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the dance floor.

“I can’t dance.”

“You absolutely can.”

“I once injured myself doing a grapevine.”

“That was because you tried it wearing slippers.”

“They were supportive slippers.”

“They were orthopedic.”

“Exactly.”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Just move your feet.”

Ellie looked around the crowded Manchester bar. The music was loud. The lights were low. The atmosphere was warm and happy.

For once, she wasn’t thinking about marking essays or lesson plans or whether she’d remembered to turn off the classroom heater. She was simply Ellie, not Miss Hartwell, not the teacher, not the woman who had somehow managed to trip over a perfectly flat pavement earlier that evening—just Ellie, and that version of herself was actually quite fun.

She laughed as Hannah spun beside her. “I forgot you could dance,” Hannah shouted.

“I can’t!”

“You are.”

“Then apparently my body has been keeping secrets from me,” Ellie winked.

The three women laughed. Ellie loved nights like this, not because she was searching for someone; she definitely wasn’t. After a few disastrous dates, she had accepted that perhaps romance wasn’t something that happened to women like her. Women who accidentally replied, “you too” when waiters said, “Happy Birthday.” Women who once waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at them and then had to commit to the lie for an entire thirty seconds. Women who owned a dress with pockets and considered it the greatest fashion invention of all time.

Ellie Hartwell was perfectly content—mostly.

Across the room, Ashcroft Jones was trying very hard to become invisible, which was difficult when you were six foot three, had spent the last decade appearing on television every weekend, and your face was currently on a billboard outside Manchester Piccadilly station.

However, Ash had mastered the art of keeping his head down. He wasn’t rude. He loved the supporters. He loved football. He loved the little boy who had written him a letter saying Ash’s first goal had inspired him to start playing.

But sometimes...

Sometimes he wanted to walk into a room and simply be Ash, not Ashcroft Jones: the footballer, the captain, the man everyone wanted something from.

Tonight was supposed to be quiet—have a few drinks, eat a meal, relax after a fierce week of training. Except, Ash wasn’t drinking. He never did. His teammates teased him about it, but Ash had never felt like he was missing anything.

“You’re impossible,” his friend and teammate, Ben, said.

Ash smiled. “I’ve been told.”

“You’re telling me you don’t even want one drink?”

“I’m good.”

Ben shook his head.

“You’re thirty-one. You should have at least one bad decision left in you.”

Ash glanced toward the dance floor. “I think I have enough bad decisions available already.”

Then he saw her, the tiny brunette laughing with her friends. He noticed her because she wasn’t trying to be noticed. Everyone else in the room seemed aware of who was watching. She wasn’t. She was too busy laughing at herself. She threw her head back, completely unaware that she was beautiful. Ash smiled, then immediately looked away because that was ridiculous. He didn’t know her.

Five minutes later, he learned her name. Well, not exactly. He learned it because her friend shouted it.

“Ellie!”

Ash looked up. The brunette turned, and at that exact moment everything happened. The music changed. Someone bumped into Ellie. Ellie stumbled. Her hand lifted. Her sparkling water flew, and the entire glass landed directly down the front of Ash’s trousers.

Silence. Complete and total silence. Ellie stared. Ash stared. The universe seemed to pause.

“Oh.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh no.”

Ash looked down. Then back at her.

“It’s only water,” he said while smiling.

“I have ruined your evening.”

“You haven’t.”

“I’ve attacked you,” Ellie panicked.

“I wouldn’t call it an attack.”

“I drenched your trousers.”

“Technically, gravity did most of the work.”

She looked horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Before Ash could stop her, Ellie reached for the hem of her dress. “I’ll fix it.”

“You really don’t have to—”

But Ellie Hartwell had already entered crisis mode, and crisis mode, Ash quickly discovered, involved absolutely no awareness of personal space or appropriateness. She dabbed at his trousers.

“Oh goodness,” she whimpered.

“Ellie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ash tried to grab her hand to stop her.

“It’s really not.”

Ash looked toward his friend. His friend’s eyes widened.

And then Lucy gasped.

“Ellie.”

The tone of voice made Ellie freeze.

“What?”

“Stand up.”

“Why?”

“Just stand up and put your dress down.”

Slowly, very slowly, Ellie stood, and then she realized. She had lifted her dress, just enough. She closed her eyes because of course this would happen.

Across the seat of her bright pink underwear, in glittering purple letters, was the word: “DIVA.”

Nobody spoke. Nobody needed to. Ellie had already left her body. Her soul had packed a suitcase and moved to Scotland.

“Oh my goodness,” she slumped in utter humiliation.

Ash tried; he really tried, but the laugh escaped. Not a cruel laugh, a surprised, delighted laugh, and somehow that made it worse.

Ellie immediately covered her reddening cheeks. “I am never leaving my house again.”

“Please don’t do that,” Ash said, trying to pry her hands away from her face.

“You don’t understand.”

“I think I understand quite well.”

“You have no idea who I am in my day-to-day life.”

“No.”

“Good,” she nodded. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Ash smiled. “Actually, I’d like to know.”

She looked suspicious. “Why?”

“Because you’re funny.”

“I’m standing in front of a stranger with my underwear on display.”

“Yes.”

“That isn’t usually considered a positive.”

“I disagree.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You enjoy women embarrassing themselves?”

“Not generally.”

“Not generally?”

“I mean...” He laughed. “I’m making this worse.”

“You are,” she said with furrowed brows.

There was something about her. The way she wasn’t pretending. The way she wasn’t trying to be impressive. She was simply honest.

“I’m Ash,” he held out his hand.

“Ellie.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Is it?”

He smiled, “Yes.”

She looked at him for a moment, then glanced at his wet trousers.

“I think you might be saying that because you’re still in shock.”

“Possibly.”

A smile tugged at her mouth, and there it was. The smile that made him forget the ridiculous situation entirely.

Ten minutes later, Ellie was outside with Lucy.

“I flashed him.”

“You did not flash him.”

“I absolutely flashed him.”

“You accidentally revealed your underwear.”

“That is the definition of flashing.” Lucy laughed.

“You know he’s cute, right?”

“He is dangerously attractive,” Ellie agreed.

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because I have dignity.”

Lucy looked at her. “Ellie, your dignity left somewhere around dabbing his crotch with your hem.”

Ellie sighed. “Right.” She looked back toward the door. “I’m moving to Scotland.”

Lucy smiled. “You say that every time something embarrassing happens.”

“Because Scotland is peaceful.”

“You’re not going to Scotland.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because that man inside is looking for you.”

Ellie froze. “What?”

Lucy nodded toward the pub. Ashcroft Jones stood inside, watching them through the window, like he genuinely wanted to see her again. Ellie immediately turned away.

“Nope,” Ellie shook her head.

“Ellie.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what he wants.”

“I know exactly what he wants.”

“What?”

She pointed toward the door.

“Closure.”

Lucy laughed, but Ellie didn’t see Ash smile as she walked away. She didn’t hear him say her name, and she definitely didn’t hear him tell his friend: “Find out who she is,” because Ashcroft Jones had spent years surrounded by people trying to impress him.

And somehow...

The woman who accidentally poured water on him and flashed him was the first person in a very long time to make him want to know more.

By the following Monday morning, Ellie Hartwell had managed to convince herself of three things. First, she had absolutely imagined the chemistry between herself and Ash. Second, he was almost certainly far too good-looking and busy to think about the woman who had soaked his trousers. Third, she was never wearing those knickers again.

She’d just finished rearranging the poetry shelf in her classroom when Mrs. Whitaker, the school receptionist, appeared in the doorway with an expression that usually meant either a parent had arrived unexpectedly or Year Eight had discovered another way to set off the fire alarm.

“Ellie?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a gentleman here asking for you. He looks a lot like that famous footballer.”

Ellie’s stomach dropped. “Oh, goodness.”

“He says you met at the Copper Fox.”

Lucy. She was going to kill Lucy. Ellie smoothed down her cardigan, took a calming breath, and walked toward reception. The moment she rounded the corner, she stopped. Ashcroft Jones stood there holding two takeaway coffees. He smiled. Those ridiculous dimples should have been illegal.

“I come bearing peace offerings.”

She looked at the coffees and folded her arms. “You tracked me down?”

“I did.”

“That’s slightly alarming.”

“I asked around.”

“That’s more alarming.”

He laughed. “I promise I wasn’t stalking you.”

“You’ve got to admit; this sounds exactly like something a stalker would say.”

He laughed. “I was hoping you’d find it romantic.”

“I’m still deciding.”

He held out one of the coffees. “Flat white. The name Diva was written on the cup in black Sharpie.”

She blinked. “You remembered?” She laughed.

“I remember everything about that evening.”

Ellie took the cup.

“So... why are you really here?”

“To ask if you’ll have coffee with me.”

She looked at the cup in her hand.

“I appear to be already having coffee with you.”

His grin widened.

“I was hoping for something that lasts longer than five minutes.”

She hesitated. It had been a long time since she’d said yes to anyone. Not because she didn’t believe in love, but because she wasn’t sure anyone could enjoy the wonderfully chaotic person, she seemed to be.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.”

“You know I spill things.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I trip.”

“I’ve seen evidence.”

“I panic.”

“You definitely panic,” he laughed a low, rumbly sexy laugh.

“I once locked myself in the stationery cupboard.”

He tilted his head.

“...How?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Ash laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

“You see?” Ellie said. “Most people hear that story and slowly back away.”

“I’m not most people.” His smile softened.

“I like that you don’t pretend.”

She looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“When people meet me...” He shrugged. “They usually meet the footballer first.”

“The footballer?”

He nodded toward the television mounted in reception. A sports channel happened to be showing highlights from the previous weekend. The screen filled with a familiar face—blond hair, blue eyes, impossible dimples, Ashcroft Jones.

Ellie’s eyes moved from the television...back to the man standing in front of her.

“...You’re kidding.”

“I was wondering how long it would take.”

“You’re...that Ashcroft Jones?”

“Guilty.”

“The Ashcroft Jones whose face is on buses?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“The Ashcroft Jones my Year Eleven boys won’t stop talking about?”

“The very same.”

Ellie stared for a full five seconds. Then she sighed. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I’ve accidentally wiped the crotch of one of the most famous footballers in England.”

Ash burst into laughter. She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t encourage me.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I teach Shakespeare.”

“I know.”

“I own seven cardigans.”

“I like cardigans.”

“I drive a tiny Mini Cooper.”

“I think that’s adorable.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You keep saying the wrong things.”

“I think I’m saying exactly the right ones.”

Silence settled between them, comfortable silence, the sort of silence Ellie had almost forgotten existed.

Finally, she looked down at her coffee. “So...”

“So?”

“I suppose I could spare an hour.”

His face lit up. “Only an hour?”

“I’ve got essays to mark.”

“Fair enough.”

“And if you laugh at me again...” she teased.

“I’ll at least try to be discreet.”

Two weeks later, Ash scored the winning goal in front of a sold-out crowd. Television cameras found him celebrating. Instead of pointing to the supporters or kissing the club badge, he looked toward one corner of the stands.

Ellie, wearing a bright red scarf she’d knitted herself, smiled nervously and gave him an awkward little wave. The cameras caught that. The internet went wild.

The next Monday, one of her Year Nine students raised his hand before English had even begun.

“Miss?”

“Yes, Liam?”

“Is it true you’re dating Ashcroft Jones?”

The classroom fell silent. Twenty-eight teenagers leaned forward.

Ellie smiled to herself. “I believe,” she said, opening Pride and Prejudice, “that today’s lesson is about making assumptions.”

A chorus of groans filled the room. She laughed. “Now...who can tell me why first impressions are so often wrong?”

Outside the classroom window, Ash happened to be waiting to take her to lunch. He caught her eye through the glass. She smiled, not because her life had suddenly become perfect. She still tripped over nothing, still forgot where she’d left her keys, still had a remarkable talent for finding herself in gloriously embarrassing situations, but somewhere between a spilled glass of sparkling water and a takeaway flat white...she’d discovered something rather wonderful.

Sometimes…just sometimes, the best love stories begin completely offside.

The End

Part One

If kindness were a subject taught at St. Bartholomew’s Academy, Miss Eleanor Hartwell would have been Head of Department.

At thirty years old, Ellie had become something of a legend around the school, not because she was the strictest teacher; she wasn’t. Not because she gave the easiest grades; she definitely didn’t, and certainly not because she was the most organized member of staff. No one—not even Ellie herself—would dare make that claim.

Students loved Miss Hartwell because she possessed a rare gift: she made people feel seen. She remembered birthdays. She kept biscuits in the bottom drawer of her desk for children who forgot breakfast. She stayed after school to help struggling readers discover that books weren’t something to fear but a place to escape to, and whenever a student whispered, “I’m just not very clever,” Ellie would smile, lean against their desk, and say the same thing every time, “You haven’t found the way you learn yet.”

It never failed to soften frightened eyes, which was why nobody laughed harder at Ellie than Ellie laughed at herself.

“Morning, Miss Hartwell!”

Ellie looked up from balancing an armful of books and smiled as Year Nine streamed into the corridor.

“Morning, Oliver.”

“Your cardigan’s inside out.”

She stopped walking, “...Again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She sighed dramatically. “Right.”

Without missing a beat, she slipped one arm free, twisted the cardigan around, and put it back on while continuing down the corridor.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve started checking every morning.”

“You’re doing the Lord’s work Oliver.” She winked.

The students laughed. Ellie laughed too.

By first period, she’d already spilled tea across her lesson planner, walked into the edge of the photocopier, and somehow managed to write the date on the whiteboard as February despite the fact it was unmistakably October.

“Miss,” one student called. “It isn’t February.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She uncapped the marker. “Does anyone else occasionally lose six months?”

Twenty-eight hands shot into the air.

“There we are,” Ellie said brightly. “Perfectly normal.”

By lunchtime, the English department was buzzing.

“Three detentions,” Mr. Collins announced proudly. “And one confiscated vape.”

Mrs. Evans nodded. “I survived Year Ten.”

Everyone turned toward Ellie. “And you?”

She buttered a crumpet. “I locked myself in the stationery cupboard.”

Silence.

Mrs. Evans blinked, “...How?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

“You work here.”

“I know,” Ellie said dismissively as she took a bite of her food.

“How long?”

“About twenty minutes.”

Mr. Collins burst into laughter, “Who found you?”

“Year Seven.”

“Of course.”

“They heard me singing.”

“You were singing?”

“I got bored.”

Mrs. Evans shook her head, “You know, Ellie...”

“Mm?”

“Things happen to you that simply don’t happen to anyone else.”

Ellie smiled, “I prefer to think life is keeping itself interesting.”

School finally ended just after four. Ellie collapsed into her tiny Mini Cooper with a grateful sigh. Her phone rang before she’d even started the engine. It was Lucy.

“You’d better not cancel.” Lucy jumped right in, knowing exactly where Ellie’s head was.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“No.”

“I’ve had a day.” Ellie laid her head against the steering wheel.

“You’ve had a day every day since Year Eight.”

Ellie sat up straight to make the words land hard. “I was imprisoned in a cupboard.”

“You were temporarily delayed,” Lucy dismissed.

“I had to climb over glue sticks.”

Lucy snorted, “You’re coming out.”

“I look like a librarian.”

“You always look like a librarian.”

“I’m wearing sensible shoes.”

“So, change them.”

“I don’t own exciting shoes.”

“You own the red heels.”

“I wore them once.” Ellie smiled, remembering.

“And?”

Ellie’s smile dropped. “I fell down two stairs.”

Lucy paused, “...Fair.”

Ellie smiled despite herself. “What time?”

“Half seven.”

“Where?”

“The Copper Fox.”

“You know I don’t drink.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have sparkling water,” Ellie said matter-of-factly.

“I know.”

“I’ll leave by ten.”

Lucy laughed, “We’ll see.”

An hour later, Ellie stood in front of her wardrobe, wondering how every woman on Earth seemed capable of looking effortlessly glamorous except her.

She settled on a navy wrap dress that hugged her waist without trying too hard and reached just above her knees. She twisted her chestnut hair into loose waves, applied mascara, and a touch of lip gloss. Then, immediately sneezed. Half the mascara landed beneath one eye.

“Oh, brilliant.”

Twenty minutes later she was finally ready. She slipped into the red heels she’d spent the last three years avoiding. Studied herself in the mirror, and for a brief moment she almost believed what Lucy was forever telling her. That she wasn’t merely pretty, she was beautiful. The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.

She grabbed her handbag, locked the front door, and walked exactly three steps when her heel caught in the crack between two paving stones. She windmilled both arms, somehow keeping herself upright.

A passing elderly gentleman applauded. Ellie gave a theatrical bow, “Thank you.”

“You all right, love?”

“Never better,” Ellie said while smoothing her dress.

He smiled. “You’ve got spirit.”

Ellie looked toward the Manchester skyline glowing beneath the evening lights. “I’ve got something, that’s for sure.”

As she climbed into her Mini, she had absolutely no idea that somewhere across the city, a man named Ashcroft Jones had just finished football training. Nor that before the night was over, she would accidentally pour an entire glass of sparkling water into his lap, and quite possibly change both of their lives forever.

To Be Continued

By every measurable standard, Graham Laurent was winning at life.

At thirty, he’d become one of the youngest managing directors at one of the most prestigious investment firms on Wall Street. His apartment overlooked Bryant Park. His watch cost more than the first car he’d ever driven. Financial magazines called him “the closer” because billion-dollar deals somehow always landed on his desk.

His girlfriend, Sloane, had nearly a million followers on Instagram. Everything in his life looked expensive—everything except his happiness.

He’d become so accustomed to eighty-hour workweeks that silence felt foreign. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten dinner before ten o’clock or called his parents without multitasking through spreadsheets.

When his phone rang at 5:42 on a Tuesday morning, he almost ignored it. It was his youngest sister, Amelia. She never called before sunrise. He answered on the second ring.

“Millie?” There was only crying. His stomach tightened.

“Graham,” she managed. He sat upright with panic.

“It’s Dad.”

Five days later, Graham stood beneath a canopy of ancient live oaks in one of New Orleans’ historic cemeteries, the July heat already settling over the marble tombs like a heavy quilt.

His father’s mahogany casket rested atop the family vault, generations of Laurents already etched into the weathered stone. Hundreds had come—governors and city council members, James Beard Award-winning chefs, old oyster fishermen from Plaquemines Parish, produce suppliers who’d been delivering vegetables to Laurent’s for forty years, dishwashers who had become line cooks, line cooks who had become executive chefs, servers who’d put three children through college because Richard Laurent had insisted they deserved health insurance before most restaurants ever considered offering it.

Some cried openly, others stood in silence, hats in hand. The Archbishop finished the final blessing, and for a moment the cemetery became impossibly still. Then, from somewhere behind the crowd, came the unmistakable sound of a lone trumpet, soft and haunting.

The notes of “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” drifted through the rows of white marble tombs. As heads turned, a brass band emerged through the cemetery gates—trumpets, trombones, a tuba, and a snare drum.

Behind them, members of the Original Big Seven Social Aid & Pleasure Club unfurled embroidered umbrellas in shades of gold, emerald, and royal blue. Someone quietly handed Graham a black handkerchief. His mother slipped her arm through his.

“Your father planned this years ago,” she whispered.

“Of course he did.”

She smiled through tears. “He said, ‘I’ve spent my whole life making people celebrate. Don’t let my funeral be the first party I miss.’”

Graham laughed despite himself. That sounded exactly like Richard Laurent.

The band led the procession out of the cemetery with slow, reverent hymns. Family walked behind the band while friends and longtime employees followed on foot, umbrellas bobbing in the humid air.

As they reached the street, the final prayer was spoken, then the drumbeat changed. The trumpet lifted, and without warning, the music burst joyfully into “When the Saints Go Marching In.” People clapped. Someone shouted, “That’s right, Richard!” The umbrellas began to twirl. Children danced. Even strangers standing along St. Charles Avenue stepped onto the sidewalks to watch as the procession passed beneath the sprawling oaks.

Restaurant owners emerged from their kitchens still wearing aprons, and waiters stood outside neighboring cafés with their hands over their hearts. It seemed as though half the city had paused to say goodbye.

The procession wound its way into the Garden District until it finally stopped beneath the familiar green-and-white striped awnings of Laurent’s. The front doors stood open. Every employee—past and present—waited on the steps wearing crisp white jackets.

As Graham stepped onto the sidewalk, Executive Chef René Boudreaux removed his toque. “So long, Chef,” he said quietly toward the restaurant.

The kitchen staff echoed him. “So long, Chef.”

Inside, every chair had been pushed back from every table. Richard’s favorite table—the small corner booth where he’d taken countless meetings and family dinners—held a single place setting—one crystal wineglass, one linen napkin, one long-stemmed white rose. No one spoke.

Then the maître d’ rang the antique brass reservation bell that had welcomed guests for nearly a century—just once. It’s clear note echoed through the empty dining room. Service, as they knew it, had ended.

His mother stood between Graham and his three younger sisters: Claire, Amelia, and Lucy, as condolences poured in. Each looked exhausted and utterly frightened.

When the celebration of his dad’s life had ended, Graham wandered alone through the restaurant. The dining room was empty except for the white tablecloths, crystal glasses, and brass chandeliers, all of which were quintessential Laurent’s.

The same scent of butter, garlic, and French bread lingered in the walls. He remembered playing hide and go seek beneath tables when he was six. He remembered learning to polish silverware, and watching his father greet every guest as though they’d been invited into his own home.

Richard Laurent used to say there were restaurants, and then there were places people trusted with their memories.

“We don’t sell food,” he’d tell Graham. “We protect moments.”

He hadn’t understood then. Now, he did.

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The attorney arrived that afternoon. Richard had left the restaurant equally to Graham and his mother. Graham blinked.

“There has to be some mistake,” Graham insisted.

“There isn’t,” his mother whispered.

“I live in New York. My life is in New York.”

His mother quietly folded her hands. “I know.”

“You’ve always known I’d stay on Wall Street.”

His mother smiled sadly. “No, not necessarily.” She reached into her purse. “I knew he always felt you belonged here.” She handed him an envelope.

His name appeared in his father’s familiar handwriting.

Son,

If you’re reading this, then I’m finally getting to rest. You never owed me this restaurant, not once. I was proud watching you build your own life.

But if there comes a moment when your heart tells you you’re chasing the wrong dream...know there will always be a kitchen waiting for you.

Restaurants don’t survive because of recipes. They survive because someone loves the people who walk through the front door. If you think that’s you...come home. If it isn’t...sell the place. Just don’t keep it because of guilt.

Love, Dad.

Back in Manhattan, Graham walked into his office carrying the letter folded inside his jacket. His assistant was already waiting.

“The Tokyo investors moved our meeting.”

“Cancel it.”

She laughed.

“I’m serious,” Graham insisted.

By noon, he’d resigned. By dinner, he’d listed his apartment. By midnight, he’d ended things with Sloane. She stared across the restaurant table in disbelief. “You’re choosing...Louisiana?”

“I’m choosing family, my legacy. You can’t ask me to choose otherwise. If you would have gone with me to my father’s funeral, you’d understand. This is the right thing to do.”

“But your career.”

“It’ll survive. It might even flourish,” Graham managed a smirk, trying to reassure her.

“My followers love New York. They won’t follow me to New Orleans. “

He smiled kindly. “I don’t know about that. People are drawn to New Orleans like moths to a neon sign on Bourbon Street.”

Sloane wasn’t cruel. She couldn’t imagine choosing something that didn’t come with prestige, or at least what she understood as prestige. It was clear that she wouldn’t and couldn’t understand the pull of a city like New Orleans. For the first time in years, Graham saw the glittering towers of Wall Street and felt hollow. He didn’t have a tug towards a new social rung, but toward a place with wrought-iron balconies, humid night air, and a life in vivid color—home.

Six weeks later, he was running through Audubon Park just after sunrise. Humidity clung to everything. Spanish moss swayed overhead. The city smelled like coffee and jasmine. He almost collided with her.

“Oh!” She laughed as both of them jumped sideways.

“Sorry,” Graham said, becoming all to aware of her slim waste and long legs.

She removed one earbud. “You always run without looking where you’re going?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” Graham teased.

She grinned. “Convenient.” She continued jogging.

He watched her disappear beneath the trees.

The next morning, there she was again. This time she waved.

“Less dangerous today?”

“I’m improving,” he smiled.

“Good,” she smiled back and ran ahead before he could ask her name.

A week later, he stopped inside The Rink for coffee after his run. The converted skating rink buzzed with morning conversations and laptop workers. He ordered a cappuccino, so did she. The woman from the park stepped beside him.

“You again. Trying to take my cappuccino, I see.”

He smiled. “Apparently.”

She looked at him. “I’ve decided you either run every day, or you’re following me. I’m hoping it’s the first one.”

“It is,” he laughed.

She extended a hand. “Caroline.”

“Graham. Graham Laurent.”

She studied him. “Are you knew to the neighborhood?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“A little.”

He laughed. “I guess you could say I’m new. I’ve been gone a while.”

They chatted for five minutes about nothing important: favorite running routes, coffee, humidity. She was an architect restoring historic homes throughout the Garden District. He had an innate desire to ask for her number.

Then, someone called her name. She waved goodbye and disappeared again.

The restaurant reopened two weeks after Richard’s funeral. Business was steady. Tourists filled the dining room. Locals cautiously watched to see whether Richard’s son would ruin everything.

Graham worked everywhere—the Host stand, the kitchen, the wine cellar, and the dish pit. His days of being shackled to his desk were gone. His hands became rough. His hair permanently smelled faintly of butter. He went to bed physically worn out.

One Friday evening, the hostess approached. “Table twelve requested you.”

He grabbed two menus, then stopped. It was Caroline. She sat with three girlfriends. The moment she looked up, she smiled. She looked breathtaking, the scarlet of her gown matching the sharp red of her lips.

“I wondered if this was your restaurant.”

“You wondered?”

“I Googled you,” she admitted, a fresh blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Oh?” This thrilled him.

“The mysterious Wall Street man who disappeared,” one of her friends said. They exchanged glances. One leaned across the table. “So, you’re that Graham,” her friend said.

“I’m afraid so.” The truth washed over him: Caroline had been sharing his name.

Caroline rolled her eyes. “They’ve heard entirely too much about the guy who almost tackled me during my morning run.”

“I distinctly remember saving us both,” he winked.

“Barely,” she winked back.

He laughed. “So...” He gestured toward the menu. “Have you been here before?”

Her friend answered first. “Every birthday.”

Another chimed in. “My parents got engaged here.”

A third smiled. “My grandparents still celebrate every anniversary here.”

Something inside Graham settled. His father had been right. They weren’t serving dinner. They were protecting memories.

“I’ll make sure Chef takes good care of you.”

He visited the table once after appetizers, again after entrées, and once more after dessert. Each time, Caroline’s friends became increasingly amused. When he walked away the final time, one whispered loudly enough for him to hear—”He’s absolutely flirting.”

Caroline covered her face. “Oh, my word. Y’all are so loud.” Her friends erupted into laughter.

Near closing, Graham boxed their leftovers himself. He carried them to the table.

“So...” He cleared his throat. “This may sound unusual.”

Caroline folded her hands. “I’m listening.”

“The restaurant closes around ten tomorrow night.”

She nodded.

“I usually pour one last glass of wine for whoever’s still cleaning.” He hesitated. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”

Her friends immediately stopped pretending not to listen. “It wouldn’t exactly be a date.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I mean...,” Graham trailed off, suddenly stranded in the uncharted territory of his own self-doubt. “It could become one.”

She smiled slowly. “In that case...I’d love to.”

He exhaled with relief. “Good.”

Her friends burst into applause. One pointed at him. “We’ve been waiting twenty minutes for you to ask.”

Another laughed. “You’ve checked on us four times.”

“Five,” another corrected. “You forgot when he refilled our water.”

Graham, now blushing, surrendered. “I may have slightly over-serviced your table.”

“Slightly?” Everyone laughed. Caroline stood, ushering Graham out of the line of fire.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She started toward the door before turning back. “Oh, and try not to run into me before then.”

He smiled. “No promises.”

She disappeared into the warm New Orleans evening. For the first time since leaving New York, Graham remained standing in the middle of the dining room long after every customer had gone. The chandeliers glowed softly overhead. The kitchen clattered behind him. Outside, music drifted through the Garden District. His father’s restaurant, his restaurant, was alive and well, and tomorrow night, someone he’d been hoping to see for weeks would walk through the front door—not as another guest, but as someone who might become part of the next chapter of his life.

Maybe leaving Wall Street hadn’t been walking away from success after all.

Maybe it had simply been coming home.

The final guests drifted out just after ten.

A waiter blew out the candles on the last occupied table while another stacked polished wine glasses behind the mahogany bar. Silverware clinked in distant kitchens. Someone laughed as they clocked out.

One by one, the lights dimmed until only the amber glow of crystal chandeliers remained. Louis Armstrong’s unmistakable gravelly voice floated softly through the speakers. “A kiss to build a dream on...” The restaurant seemed to exhale. For the first time all day, Laurent’s belonged only to them.

Graham stood behind the bar, loosening his navy silk tie before pulling it free. He rolled his sleeves to his forearms, revealing muscles earned from weeks of carrying produce deliveries, lifting stockpots, and unloading seafood trucks before sunrise instead of spreadsheets in Manhattan boardrooms.

He looked different now—less polished, more grounded, more...New Orleans.

The front door opened quietly. He turned and promptly forgot how to breathe. Caroline stepped inside wearing a flowing white summer dress that skimmed her figure with effortless elegance. Her dark hair rested against one shoulder, catching the warm chandelier light. She looked as though she’d wandered out of a painting.

“You came.”

She smiled. “You invited me.”

“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”

“I almost did.”

His face fell. She laughed. “I’m kidding.”

“You enjoy watching me panic.”

“A little.”

He shook his head. “I had a feeling.”

He poured two glasses of Cabernet before leading her to the corner booth, his father’s

booth. The white linen tablecloth had already been replaced with fresh candles.

Outside, St. Charles Avenue had quieted. Streetcars rattled somewhere in the distance. For hours, they talked. Not the kind of conversation strangers usually have, the kind that skipped the rehearsed biographies.

They talked about childhood, about dreams that had changed, about disappointments, favorite books, favorite cities, the strange loneliness of succeeding at something that no longer felt like success.

Caroline admitted she’d once wanted to design skyscrapers before realizing she loved restoring old homes because they deserved another chance.

Graham confessed he’d spent years believing bigger bonuses meant a bigger life.

“I don’t think I ever asked myself if I actually liked who I was becoming.”

She studied him. “Do you?”

He looked around the dining room at the brass railings polished smooth by generations of hands, at photographs lining the walls, at his father’s smiling face frozen forever in black and white.

“I’m starting to.”

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Near midnight, Caroline traced her finger around the rim of her wineglass.

“I should probably tell you something.”

He smiled, “I’m listening.”

“I knew your father.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “Not well.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “But I’ll never forget him.”

He leaned forward.

“When I was sixteen my dad left.”

Silence settled between them.

“My mom was a schoolteacher with three kids and no child support. There were months she barely kept the lights on.” Graham listened quietly.

“One night my mom brought us here.”

He frowned. “Here?”

She smiled. “It was my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. My dad had already been gone almost a year. We couldn’t afford dinner.”

“So why come?” Graham asked.

“Because my little brother begged her. He said if we couldn’t celebrate at home, maybe we could at least walk past the place where Mom and Dad used to celebrate every anniversary.”

Graham felt his throat tighten.

“We were standing outside looking through the windows. It was raining. I remember watching families laughing inside. My mom was trying so hard not to cry.” Caroline looked down at her hands.

“Your father walked outside. He asked if we had a reservation. My mom told him no. He looked at my little brother and said...”

She smiled through gathering tears.

“’Well, that’s a shame...because someone just canceled the best table in the house.’” Graham swallowed hard.

“He seated all four of us. My mom kept insisting there had to be some mistake. He told her...” Caroline’s voice softened.

“’Ma’am...around here anniversaries are sacred.’”

“He brought out every course himself. When dessert came, he set a tiny candle on top.”

“My mom whispered...”’Richard...I can’t pay for this.’”

“What did he say?” Graham asked, throat clogged with suppressed emotions.

Caroline laughed softly. “He looked offended.”

“’Who said anything about paying?’”

“He told my mother...”’One day your children will remember tonight. They won’t remember what life took from them. They’ll remember what love looked like.”

Graham looked away. His vision blurred.

“We tried to pay him anyway, with what we had. He slipped the money back into my mom’s purse before we left. I found it the next morning.” She smiled.

“My mom still has the receipt. It says...” She reached into her purse. “I actually brought it to show you.”

She unfolded a faded piece of paper, nearly worn through with age. Across the bottom, in elegant handwriting, were six words.

Family always has a table here.

—Richard Laurent

Neither of them spoke. The restaurant somehow felt fuller than it had all evening. As though every memory it had ever held had gathered around them. Finally, Graham whispered, “I had no idea.”

“No.” She smiled. “I don’t think he wanted you to.”

“He did things like that all the time,” Graham said.

Caroline nodded in agreement. “I’ve talked to enough people over the years to know.” She reached across the table and gently covered his hand with hers.

“Your father didn’t build the most beloved restaurant in New Orleans because the food was extraordinary. He built it because he made people feel seen. He fed hungry hearts every bit as much as hungry stomachs.”

Something inside Graham quietly broke and healed all at once.

Without thinking, he stood. “So...”

She looked up. “So?”

“I’ve been wanting to do something all evening.”

“You have?”

He nodded once.

“If I’m wrong thinking you want this too, tell me.”

She stood too. “You aren’t.”

He crossed the space between them. His hand settled gently against her cheek. She closed her eyes before he ever kissed her.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t uncertain. It was the kind of kiss that felt less like the beginning of something than the recognition of something that had been quietly finding its way toward them for a long time.

When they finally pulled apart, neither had moved very far. She rested her forehead against his.

“I was wondering how long you were going to make me wait.”

He smiled. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”

“You succeeded.”

“For about three hours.”

They laughed.

As Graham walked Caroline to the front door, the opening notes of another song drifted through the speakers—Dean Martin. “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You...”

He stopped. A smile spread slowly across his face. “My dad’s favorite.”

At that same moment, the old gas lanterns outside the front windows flickered once, then again. The flame steadied. A strong breeze stirred the old oaks that haunted Chestnut Street all the way to St. Charles Avenue, though the night had been still only moments before.

Caroline looked toward the window. “Old buildings have personalities.”

“They do.” Graham watched the lantern glow warmly against the darkness.

For just a heartbeat, he could almost hear his father’s laugh echoing through the dining room, not as a ghost, but as a memory so alive it refused to leave.

He looked around Laurent’s—the polished bar, the worn hardwood floors, the photographs of four generations lining the walls—and finally understood what his father had spent a lifetime trying to teach him.

A restaurant wasn’t simply a place that served dinner. It was where first dates became engagements, where anniversaries were celebrated, where broken hearts were mended, where families gathered after funerals and before weddings, where strangers became regulars, and where ordinary evenings quietly became the stories people told for the rest of their lives.

This wasn’t just his family’s business. It was their gift to the city, his city.

And somewhere between leaving Wall Street, coming home, and meeting the woman now standing beside him beneath the glow of the lanterns, Graham realized that neither a skyline nor a stock price had ever measured success. Sometimes, it was measured by whether there would always be one more chair to pull up to the table.

He slipped his fingers through Caroline’s. She smiled without saying a word. Together, they locked the front doors of Laurent’s, and for the first time in a very long while, Graham wasn’t wondering what came next.

He was exactly where he was meant to be.

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Presley Monroe hadn’t planned on crying in the parking lot of Graceland before nine in the morning. She’d planned on being composed. She’d planned on honoring her grandfather with dignity. She should’ve planned on waterproof mascara.

She dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her denim jacket just as a golf cart full of tourists rolled past.

“You okay, darlin’?” one elderly woman called.

Presley forced a smile. “Just having a spiritual moment.”

The woman nodded knowingly. “Happens. Elvis’ll do that.”

Presley laughed despite herself. Good, Grandpa would’ve preferred laughing over crying anyway.

She slipped a folded letter from her pocket. The edges were soft from being read dozens of times.

Sweet Pea,

If you’re reading this, then I broke my promise. I really tried to make it past your birthday, but I guess God had other plans. Please see our trip through, without me. Go to Graceland. Take your time, and play our favorite Elvis song. Feel free to talk to me along the way. Stay a while, who knows, something wonderful may happen. Look for a sign from me.

Love always,

Grandpa

Presley smiled. “Something wonderful,” she whispered. “No pressure.”

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Rhett Gatlin was attempting the impossible: slipping into Graceland unnoticed. That might have been easier if his face hadn’t been plastered across half the country music playlists in America after his breakout single climbed every chart imaginable. His manager insisted he wear sunglasses and a baseball cap.

“No smiling,” she’d instructed.

“You smile, and people recognize the dimples.” Apparently, his dimples had become a liability.

He’d almost made it. Almost. Until a little boy pointed dramatically. “Daddy!” The child gasped like he’d discovered Bigfoot. “That’s Rhett Gatlin!” Rhett sighed helplessly.

Within seconds, three moms, two teenagers, and one enthusiastic grandmother were asking for selfies. He happily obliged. Then, escaped down a quieter garden path before anyone else spotted him.

Unfortunately, someone else was walking backward while reading an old letter. THUD. “Oof!” Papers flew, and one iced coffee exploded. A pair of sunglasses skidded dramatically across the sidewalk.

“Oh my gosh!” Presley dropped to her knees. “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking—”

“I wasn’t either.” Their heads bumped, again. They both laughed.

“Okay,” Rhett said, rubbing his forehead. “That’s on both of us.”

She handed him his sunglasses. He froze. Please don’t recognize me, he thought. Please don’t—“Nice glasses.” He blinked.

“...Thanks.”

“They survived.”

“They’re tougher than I am.”

She smiled. It was the kind that started in her eyes before reaching her mouth. Not practiced, or flirtatious, just real. He liked it immediately.

She gathered the last page of Grandpa’s letter before it could blow away.

“You dropped this,” Rhett said, handing her a few pages before flying away in the breeze.

“Thank you.”

He glanced at the paper but politely looked away before reading it. “Sentimental?”

She nodded. “It’s a letter from my grandfather who just passed away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He actually sent me here.”

“Smart man.”

“You think?”

“I’ve always believed Graceland counts as therapy.”

She laughed. “That’s the strangest sentence anyone’s said to me today.”

“It’s still early.”

“Fair.”

They stood an awkward beat.

“I’m Presley.”

He hesitated. Should he say his name? He wasn’t much of a liar. “Rhett.”

“Nice to meet you, Rhett.” Still nothing: no widened eyes, no gasp, no request for a picture. He wasn’t sure why that disappointed him just a little.

“So...” Presley looked around. “First visit?”

“No.”

“You’ve been before?”

“My Nana loved Elvis.”

Presley’s eyebrows shot up. “My grandpa did, too.” They laughed.

“Favorite song?”

He answered instantly. “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

Presley stopped walking. “No.”

“What?”

“That’s mine.”

He laughed. “No, it’s mine.”

“You can’t steal my favorite Elvis song.”

“I heard it first.”

She tilted her head. “You know...”

“What?”

“You don’t seem like an Elvis guy.”

He pretended to look offended. “Ouch.”

“I mean...you look like...” She searched for words. “...someone who writes sad songs in expensive boots.”

He barked out a laugh. “I’ve never been so accurately insulted.”

They wandered through the mansion together. Neither intended to. It just happened. Every room sparked another story.

“My grandpa tried to decorate our den like this once,” Presley whispered.

“Oh?”

“My grandmother called it ‘Las Vegas exploded in Mississippi.’” Rhett laughed loud enough that another tour group turned. He lowered his voice.

“She wasn’t wrong.”

Later, standing beside one of Elvis’s gold records, Presley caught him quietly humming. She recognized the melody immediately.

“Can’t Help Falling in Love.’”

He looked embarrassed. “I always hum when I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?”

He shrugged. “Crowds.”

She looked around. “There are hundreds of people here.”

“I noticed.”

“You seem calm.”

“I’m faking it.”

She smiled softly. “You hide it well.”

“What do you do when you’re nervous?” Rhett asked.

“I make jokes.”

“Are you nervous today?”

She shrugged. “I’m not nervous, just sad. I miss my grandpa.”

His expression changed instantly.

“I’m sorry.”

“He was my best friend. He raised me after we lost my mom when I was six, almost 18 years ago. “ She looked around the room. “He promised we’d come here together someday.”

Rhett waited.

“He bought the tickets.” Her voice cracked. “...He just never got to use his.” Silence settled between them.

Rhett reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out an old guitar pick worn smooth around the edges.

“My Nana gave me this before my first show.” Presley turned it over. An Elvis silhouette was faded into the plastic. “I carry it everywhere.”

She smiled through damp eyes. “They would’ve gotten along.”

“I think they would’ve.”

Outside, music drifted from hidden speakers. The unmistakable opening notes of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Presley looked toward the courtyard.

“I know everyone picks this one.”

“So?”

“I still cry every time.”

“Same.”

“You do not.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You don’t seem that emotionally available.”

He laughed. “Again, with the accurate insults.”

She smiled. Then, without thinking, she held out her hand. “Dance with me?”

He blinked. “Here?”

“Why not?”

“In front of everybody?”

“Especially.”

He took her hand. It fit perfectly in his. Neither spoke. They simply swayed beneath the Memphis sunshine while tourists smiled as they passed. For one perfect song, the sadness she’d carried all morning felt lighter. For one perfect song, Rhett forgot about the fame.

When the song ended, neither let go. Then, a teenage girl walking by shrieked. “Oh my gosh!” She pointed directly at Rhett. “I KNEW THAT WAS HIM!”

Presley frowned. “Him who?”

Rhett closed his eyes. “...Uh-oh.”

Presley blinked. The teenage girl was already sprinting toward them, dragging three of her friends behind her. “Oh. My. Gosh!” she squealed. “You’re Rhett Gatlin!” Within seconds, the peaceful courtyard transformed into an impromptu meet-and-greet. “I love your new song!” “My mom and I are coming to your concert in Nashville!” “Can we get a picture?”

Rhett smiled graciously, signing a hat, posing for selfies, and thanking everyone who came over. Presley quietly stepped back.

She thought, Of course, that explained why he looked vaguely familiar. She wasn’t much of a country music listener unless it involved George Strait or anything recorded before 1995.

When the crowd finally dispersed, Rhett turned to find her sitting on a bench beneath a magnolia tree. “You disappeared.”

“I figured famous people have obligations.”

His shoulders sagged. “What famous people?’”

She laughed. “Sorry, but I definitely believe the secret’s out.”

He sat beside her. “You really didn’t know who I was?”

She shrugged. “I know now.”

“And?”

“And, you’re still the guy who spilled coffee on my boots.”

“You spilled coffee on my boots.”

“You walked into me.”

“You walked backward.”

She considered that. “Fine. Fifty-fifty.”

“I’ll take it.” A comfortable silence settled between them.

“You know what’s funny?” Presley said.

“What?”

“My grandpa would’ve loved this.”

“The coffee?”

“No.” She smiled. “Meeting someone famous and having absolutely no idea.”

Rhett laughed. “I think I would’ve liked your grandpa.”

“You would’ve.” She unfolded the weathered letter once more. “I never told you the last part.” He waited.

She read softly. “Don’t leave before something wonderful happens. You’ll know when it does.” She folded it closed again.

“I kept wondering what that meant.”

Rhett looked toward the mansion. “Maybe he didn’t mean something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he meant someone.”

Their eyes met. The air seemed to hold its breath.

Fortunately, an Elvis impersonator chose that exact moment to roller-skate past in a white jumpsuit while eating a corn dog.

Presley burst into laughter. “I don’t think I can have a serious conversation after that.”

Rhett laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “Only at Graceland.”

“Only.”

“Come on,” Rhett said, standing.

“Where?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

Five minutes later they stood inside the gift shop.

Presley looked around. “You brought me shopping?”

“No.” He disappeared down an aisle and returned carrying two ridiculous pairs of oversized Elvis sunglasses. He handed her a pair.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I refuse,” she said

“You literally can’t.”

“Watch me.”

He slipped his own on, and she immediately dissolved into laughter. “You look like Elvis joined witness protection.”

“I’ve been told worse.”

She sighed dramatically before putting hers on. “Oh dear.”

“What?” he asked.

“We look ridiculous.”

“We look iconic.”

A nearby employee offered to take their picture. Rhett leaned close. Presley stuck out her tongue at the last second. Click.

She looked at the photo. “I haven’t laughed like this in months.”

Something softened in Rhett’s expression. “I’m really glad.”

“So am I.”

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As the afternoon melted into evening, they wandered through the Meditation Garden. Everything became quieter there, more reverent.

Presley knelt beside a small stone bench. “My grandpa believed music was God’s way of giving people tiny glimpses of heaven.”

Rhett smiled. “My Nana used to say songs can find people long before people find each other.”

Presley looked at him. “I like your Nana.”

“You would’ve loved her.”

“I think our grandparents set us up.”

He chuckled. “They’ve got entirely too much free time up there.”

She smiled toward the sky. “I can actually hear my grandpa.”

“What would he say?”

She answered in his gravelly Southern drawl. “’Sweet Pea, don’t overthink everything.’”

Rhett laughed. “Sounds wise.”

“He usually was.”

They reached the front gates just as the sun painted everything gold.

“I should probably head to the airport,” Rhett said reluctantly.

“I should probably start the ten-hour drive home.”

Neither moved. Finally, Presley spoke. “I want you to have something.” She handed him her grandfather’s old guitar pick. It was scratched, faded, and almost worn smooth. “This one belonged to my grandpa.”

“I can’t take this.”

“You can.” She smiled.

He accepted it carefully, as though it were priceless. Then, his phone buzzed. It was his manager—again.

“Your driver’s here.”

He sighed. “I know.”

She smiled sadly. “I guess this is goodbye.”

Rhett looked at her for a long moment. “I don’t think it is.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a Sharpie, and wrote something on the back of her Graceland map. She looked down.

It was his number. She grinned.

“Do you want me to call you?”

“Only if you’d want to.”

“Do you want me to?”

He ran a hand through his thick curls, “I’m realizing that I’m bad at this.”

They both laughed. Then, something in the air shifted, and before either of them could talk themselves out of it, he kissed her.

There were no fireworks and no cheering crowd. It was just a gentle kiss that tasted faintly of sweet tea and possibility.

When they pulled apart, Presley rested her forehead against his. “I think my grandfather would approve.”

“I hope so.”

She smiled. “I know so.”

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Three months later, Rhett stepped onto the stage of the biggest concert of his career—twenty thousand fans erupted. He adjusted the microphone. “I usually save this story for myself,” he said. “But today feels different.”

The crowd quieted. “A few months ago,” Rhett said, “I met a girl at Graceland.” The audience cheered.

“I thought I was there to remember my grandmother...and to remind myself why I started making music in the first place.”

He smiled toward the wings. “Turns out, I was there to meet the woman I’d been writing songs about before I even knew her name.”

The spotlight shifted. Standing just offstage was Presley, smiling, .

Rhett tipped his hat toward her. “This next song is called...” He smiled. “Only Fools Rush In.”

Presley laughed quietly to herself. Her grandfather had always liked to quote that famous Elvis lyric, but he’d always add his own ending.

“Sweet Pea, everybody remembers that fools rush in. What they forget is that the real fool is the one who never dares to take the chance.”

Looking at Rhett beneath the stage lights, Presley finally understood what he’d meant. Love would always be a risk. It always had been, but every wonderful thing in her life had started because someone was brave enough to take one.

As the first chords echoed through the arena, Presley looked up and smiled. She thought about the letter folded safely on her bedside table at home.

“Don’t leave before something wonderful happens.”

She’d almost talked herself out of making the trip, almost convinced herself it was too far, too painful, too late. Thank goodness she didn’t.

Maybe her grandfather had been right about more than Graceland. Maybe the most wonderful things in life have a way of finding us if we’re willing to take a chance.

Ellie Hayes had a list, not a list of qualities she wanted in a man. She had a list of reasons she didn’t want one. The list lived in the Notes app on her phone and currently contained forty-three bullet points.

#12: Men are easily threatened by a woman’s success.

#32: Men want a mother, not a wife.

#39: Men are incapable of giving 50/50.

Ellie would tell herself that she wasn’t bitter; she was practical.

After one broken engagement, two spectacularly bad relationships, and approximately four hundred hours of therapy, she’d reached a simple conclusion: Love was an excellent idea in theory, like owning a vineyard in Tuscany or biking to work. It was wonderful for other people, but not for her.

So, at thirty-two, Ellie focused on things she could control: her bookstore, her rescue dog—Pickles and her weekly tradition of eating chocolate cake directly from the container of her favorite bakery while watching romantic comedies and critiquing their unrealistic life choices.

She was perfectly happy, at least that’s what she told herself.

Across town, Jack Huntington had a list, too. His list was shorter—one item.

DO NOT DATE ANYONE.

Three years earlier, Jack had been the man mothers warned their daughters about— charming, successful, dangerously handsome. He was the sort of guy who remembered your coffee order but forgot your birthday.

Then his tech company exploded into a billion-dollar success, and suddenly his life became eighty-hour workweeks, investor meetings, and airports. He discovered something surprising: life was significantly less complicated without relationships. There were no misunderstandings, no drama, no heartbreak, no waking up to texts asking, “What are we?” So, he’d retired from dating entirely. His assistant actually celebrated the anniversary.

“Congratulations,” she’d said. “One full year without emotionally confusing a woman.” Jack had framed the card.

They met because of a dog—naturally.

Pickles escaped Ellie’s bookstore during a thunderstorm. Jack found him three blocks away, attempting to steal a hot dog from a street vendor.

When Jack arrived at the bookstore carrying the muddy golden doodle, Ellie’s first thought was: attractive, very attractive. Her second thought was: he definitely knows it.

“Your dog committed theft.” Pickles barked proudly.

Ellie sighed. “I’m raising a criminal.”

Jack smiled, and something about that smile was deeply irritating, mostly because it was perfect.

“He’s lucky he’s cute,” she said, scratching his head.

“People say the same thing about me,” Jack said teasingly. Ellie rolled her eyes. Jack laughed.

It was the first genuine laugh he’d had all week.

The problem began when they kept running into each other—coffee shops, the farmers’ market, charity fundraisers, her bookstore, and the dog park.

At one point, Ellie became convinced he was following her.

“You’re at all of my places,” she stated. Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Or you’re at all mine.”

“Impossible,” Ellie said in disbelief.

“I was here first,” she said as she unloaded a box of books.

“You don’t know that,” he stated.

“I literally own the building.” Ellie stared.

Jack grinned. “Okay, that was admittedly a strong argument.”

What Ellie hated most was that she liked him, not romantically, obviously, that would be ridiculous. She enjoyed talking to him, laughing with him, occasionally texting him, and looking forward to seeing him, which was entirely different.

Meanwhile, Jack found himself doing things he’d never done before. He read the books Ellie recommended. He showed up at her bookstore events. He asked questions about people’s feelings. His assistant became concerned.

“You smiled during a budget meeting,” she said.

“Did I?”

“Twice,” she deadpanned. Jack frowned.

“That bad?” he asked.

“Potentially catastrophic.”

Three months into their friendship, Ellie learned about Jack’s reputation, or at least his old reputation—the player, the serial dater, the charming disaster. Suddenly, everything made sense.

She was confusingly disappointed. Why did she care? She knew men didn’t change. That was practically bullet point number one.

So, when Jack invited her to dinner, she immediately said no. He looked genuinely surprised.

“No?” he questioned.

“No,” Ellie said definitively.

“Can I ask why?”

“You can.” Ellie crossed her arms as if putting up a protective barrier. “I don’t date.”

“Neither do I,” replied Jack. She blinked.

“What?”

“I don’t date,” he repeated.

“You?”

“Haven’t in years.”

Ellie laughed. Jack didn’t.

“Oh.” The silence stretched. “Wait,” she said. “You’re serious?”

“Painfully.”

“Why?” she asked, full of curiosity. Jack considered the question, then shrugged.

“I got tired of disappointing people.”

For the first time since she’d met him, he looked vulnerable—not charming, not confident, just honest, and somehow that was infinitely more dangerous.

A week later, they were sitting on a bookstore ladder after closing. It was the kind of ladder that rolled along tall shelves.

Ellie held two cups of coffee. Jack held Pickles. The dog had somehow convinced both adults he required constant carrying.

“I have a confession,” Ellie said.

“Okay.”

“I made a list.” She bit her lip nervously. Jack nodded.

“That feels very on-brand,” he teased.

“It’s a list of reasons not to fall in love.”

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped the dog. “Of course you did.”

“Stop laughing,” she smiled. “There are forty-three reasons.”

“Forty-three?” Jack questioned.

“I’m thorough.” She elbowed him flirtatiously.

Jack shook his head. Then softly asked, “Has the list helped?”

Ellie opened her mouth, then stopped herself, and really thought about his question.

“Not really.”

Jack nodded. “Mine didn’t either.”

“You had a list?”

“Not necessarily a list, it was just one rule.”

“What was it?” Ellie asked eagerly.

He looked at her. His expression was unexpectedly tender.

“Don’t fall for anybody.”

Ellie’s heart did something extremely inconvenient.

The rain started suddenly. Thunder rattled the windows. Pickles jumped into Ellie’s lap. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Jack smiled.

“You know what’s funny?” he asked.

“What?”

“You’re the only woman I’ve wanted to date in years.” He confessed.

Ellie looked down at her coffee, then back at him, then down again because eye contact suddenly felt dangerous. After several seconds passed, she spoke.

“What if this doesn’t work?” Ellie asked, giving Jack some reassurance.

Jack’s smile softened. “What if it does?” It was such a simple question, yet somehow nobody had ever asked it before. Every relationship in Ellie’s past had started with promises. Jack offered a possibility, no guarantees, no grand speeches, just a chance, a maybe. For the first time, that felt like enough.

Ellie realized something surprising. The walls she’d spent years building hadn’t protected her. They’d only kept her lonely.

Jack wasn’t perfect, neither was she, but maybe perfection wasn’t the point. Maybe love wasn’t about finding someone who fit every rule. Maybe it was about finding the one person who made the rules stop mattering.

Ellie smiled. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re annoying.”

Jack grinned. “I’ve been told.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, just once. When she pulled away, he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Does this mean I get promoted from friend?”

“Don’t push your luck,” she said, smiling, and so was he, because after years of saying never, they’d both discovered the same thing.

Sometimes all it takes is one person—the only exception.

Every girl at Magnolia Ridge High had a story about Cade Walker, the star quarterback and current top D-1 recruit. Unfortunately, Emmy Carter had a story too.

Her story just happened to involve secretly crushing on him for four years, not that anyone knew. Emmy had perfected the art of pretending—pretending she didn’t notice when he walked into a room, pretending she didn’t know exactly how many scholarship offers he’d received, pretending her heart didn’t perform gymnastics every time he smiled. It was easier that way because Cade Walker and Emmy Carter lived in completely different worlds.

Cade was football games under Friday night lights. Emmy was student council meetings and yearbook deadlines. Cade dated girls who arrived at school looking like they were fresh from Coachella. Emmy wore cute outfits and carried a planner. Cade had a reputation. Emmy’s reputation was so clean, it audibly squeaked.

If Magnolia Ridge High were a movie, Cade Walker was the leading man, and Emmy was the costume designer, and she accepted that. She loved her life and everyone in it—mostly.

_____________________________________________________________________________

The first time Cade really noticed Emmy Carter was freshman year, not because she was demanding attention like so many girls, but because she was quite the opposite.

A sophomore special needs student had dropped his lunch tray in the cafeteria. To most high schoolers, it was hilarious. The entire room erupted, but the guy was completely humiliated. Everyone laughed, everyone except Emmy. She’d immediately knelt to help him clean it up—pure kindness.

That’s when Cade started taking notice. Emmy wasn’t the kind of girl boys bragged about getting with in the locker room. She was the kind they couldn’t stop looking for. The kind whose green eyes sparkled when she laughed. The kind whose hair caught sunlight like honey. The kind who was beautiful without ever seeming aware of it.

Four years later, Cade was still taking notice, which was unfortunate because Emmy Carter was exactly the kind of girl who would never date a guy like him, or so he thought.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Senior year began with an assignment nobody wanted. The administration had decided that student leaders and athletes would jointly organize a Fall Festival, which would close out the football season the weekend after the Homecoming Dance. Everyone would be paired with a partner and given an assignment, and expected to perform in the Senior Showcase. This was to encourage more student participation since the previous year’s Homecoming and end-of-the-season football attendance had dropped. The pairings were posted outside the office.

Emmy was carrying a stack of yearbooks when she froze as she read the list—

17. EMMY CARTER and CADE WALKER.

“Oh no!” Emmy said out loud.

“What is it?”

Emmy looked up to find Cade standing beside her—tall, broad shoulders, athletic, and a face so unfairly handsome that a permit should probably be required.

He glanced at the list. A smile spread across his face.

“Looks like we’re partners,

Emmy forgot every word she’d ever learned.

“Yep,” Emmy barely managed.

Outstanding, a single syllable, great conversation, Emmy. She thought, mentally smacking herself.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Working together turned out to be dangerous, not because Cade was arrogant or a jerk, but because he wasn’t. Cade turned out to be funny and thoughtful and somehow not at all like the reputation that preceded him.

The more time they spent together, the more confused Emmy became. This wasn’t the player hopping from girl to girl and party to party. This was the guy who volunteered at the Boys and Girls Club, who made a homemade card for his grandmother’s birthday, who stayed after practice to help freshmen learn plays.

Emmy realized the reputation and the reality didn’t match up, and this discovery was deeply inconvenient because it made her like him even more.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked nervously while braiding streamers.

“Anything,” he smiled.

“What’s with all the girls?” Emmy couldn’t make eye contact. Cade blew out a breath.

“Believe it or not, they pursue me; I don’t pursue them. I have made my share of mistakes; I’m an 18-year-old guy and human, but I’m learning.” Emmy eventually met his eyes.

“That’s fair.” She bit her lip.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked, walking a little closer.

“Depends on the question.” Emmy glanced up at him.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “How come you’ve never had a boyfriend?”

“I actually have,” she said. “Just not from Magnolia Ridge.

“Oh.” His expression shifted. “I didn’t know that.”

For a moment, he considered asking who but decided he didn’t want to know.

Emmy shrugged. “I guess I’ve never seen the point in being with someone just to say I’m with someone.”

Something warm flickered across Cade’s face.

“That’s actually one of my favorite things about you.”

Emmy looked over at him.

“What?”

“You know exactly who you are. Most people don’t.”

For a second, neither of them looked away.

Then, a voice called Emmy’s name from across the lawn, breaking the moment.

_____________________________________________________________________________

The first humiliation happened during a Senior Showcase rehearsal for the Pep Rally.

Emmy loved to dance. She normally felt very confident dancing, but this particular practice, she wasn’t herself. She spun, her feet twisted, and she was suddenly airborne.

For one horrifying second, Emmy Carter became the first student in Magnolia Ridge history to perform an accidental cartwheel. She landed flat on her backside on the gym floor before a second passed, and all the seniors erupted in laughter. Emmy buried her face in her hands, joining in the hysterics.

“I have to move now, right?” she asked as Cade’s hand appeared, desperately trying not to laugh.

“You okay?”

“No.” Emmy made a pouty face.

“That’s fair.” He said, failing miserably at not laughing.

“I think I broke my dignity.”

That did it, Cade broke.

“For what it’s worth, that was the cutest embarrassing moment I’ve ever seen. It’s by far the best thing that has happened this week.”

Against her will, Emmy laughed too, and somehow the embarrassment evaporated into thin air.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Two weeks later, it was Cade’s turn.

Emmy arrived early one afternoon to finish decorations. Music blasted from inside the auditorium. Curious, she peeked around the curtain and nearly collapsed. Cade and the other senior football players were rehearsing a “top secret” dance for the showcase. But Cade wasn’t cool dancing, or athletic dancing, or even attractive dancing. He was straight-up terrible, horrific dancing. The future football superstar looked like a confused scarecrow being attacked by bees. Emmy snorted loudly. Cade froze and slowly turned. Their eyes met. Panic spread across his face.

“You saw that?”

“Oh, I definitely did,” she smirked. He groaned.

“I can explain,” he started.

“I don’t think you can,” Emmy said, amused. His hands dropped to his sides.

“I thought it was only the team here.” he looked at all of his friends.

Tears started to form in Emmy’s eyes from trying not to laugh.

“This is the greatest day of my life,” Emmy declared. As her laughter got the best of her, all the guys joined in, but none of them seemed to matter except for her.

“Please stop laughing, Em.”

“I literally can’t!” She lost all control and was gasping for air.

For the next week, she randomly burst into giggles whenever she remembered Cade’s routine, and somehow that became their thing, their secret, and everything shifted.

_____________________________________________________________________________

It was finally Homecoming. The night Emmy pretended she didn’t care about. Her date was the star of the lacrosse team, tall, funny, a good guy, and a sweet friend. Cade arrived with a girl named Brianna Beauregard—blonde, beautiful, skinny—exactly the kind of girl everyone expected him to date.

Emmy smiled, danced with her date, sang at the top of her lungs with her friends, and acted normal. Then, she went home and cried herself to sleep.

The next Monday, she avoided Cade. On Tuesday, she dodged running into him. By Wednesday, Cade finally cornered her near the yearbook room.

“Hey, Emmy, are you mad at me?” he surprised her.

“No.”

“You’re lying.” She sighed.

“I’m not mad.” She tried to sound as convincing as possible but failed.

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

Because seeing you with someone else felt like getting hit by a bus. She thought.

“I’ve been busy,” she said instead. He studied her.

“For the record, my date was awful.” Emmy blinked.

“What?”

“She spent forty-five minutes taking selfies,” Cade admitted.

A laugh escaped before she could stop it. Cade’s mouth spread into a wide grin. Heat flooded her cheeks.

“I love it when you blush,” he admitted, which only made her cheeks burn more brightly.

“I don’t blush,” Emmy said, placing each hand on her face.

“Oh yeah, you do.” He sounded smug, like he knew he affected her.

“Well, if I am, it’s only because I’m remembering my date.”

“And why would that make you blush?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said while walking away, proud of her quick comeback. “Gotta go! I’ll see you later.” She didn’t need to turn around to know she left him sitting in the possible realization that although his date was bad, maybe, just maybe, hers wasn’t.

_____________________________________________________________________________

The Fall Festival was a massive success. The entire school showed up and attended the bonfire afterwards. String lights glowed above the football field. The DJ’d music drifted through the cool autumn air. At some point, Emmy slipped away from the crowded field and climbed onto the empty bleachers. She stared at the lights, at the bonfire, at the future—college applications, graduation, nothing ever being the same again.

“Found you,” that all too familiar voice spoke. Her heart instantly fluttered without even turning to see him. Cade sat down beside her. For a moment, neither spoke. Then he looked out at the field and said quietly, “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

He took a breath like he carried the weight of the world in what he was about to say.

“I thought you were the most beautiful girl at the Homecoming Dance.”

Emmy whipped her head to look at him. He continued.

“I hated seeing you with Justin, and I guess I was hoping that deep down, you hated seeing me with Brianna too. It never occurred to me that the reason you’ve been avoiding me all week was because you might actually like him.”

“Oh, Cade.”

“Please don’t say anything. I’ve got to get this out before I lose the nerve,” he said. “I’ve liked you for years.”

Emmy suddenly forgot how to blink or breathe.

“What did you just say?” she asked, certain she was hallucinating. Cade laughed nervously and dragged a hand through his hair.

“I know how crazy that sounds, but I’ve liked you for years.” The world tilted.

“You have?”

“Yeah.” He looked down at his hands for a second before meeting her eyes again. “The truth is, I always figured you were too good for me.”

Now, she was certain she’d entered an alternate universe.

“Cade Walker thinks people are out of his league?” she teased, mostly because it was easier than processing what he was actually saying.

His smile was small.

“Just one person.”

Her heart skipped.

“Emmy, everybody sees the football stuff, the scholarships, the games, but all I could see was you. You were the girl helping everybody else. The girl who remembered everyone’s birthday. The girl who made people feel important. And meanwhile, I was making a lot of dumb decisions and pretending I didn’t care what people thought.”

He let out a quiet laugh.

“I honestly never thought you’d look twice at a guy like me.”

The DJ changed the song to a slow one. The opening notes of “I Only Have Eyes for You” drifted across the football field, and something inside Emmy melted.

For years, she’d been convinced Cade Walker never really saw her. Meanwhile, he’d been noticing her all along.

Then, Cade held out his hand.

“Dance with me.” Emmy placed her hand in his, under the string lights, under the stars, with the bonfire flickering in the distance. They moved slowly while the music wrapped around them. Cade brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His eyes never left hers. He leaned in.

Time slowed as Cade Walker lowered his head. Emmy’s breath caught.

When his lips met hers, the rest of the world seemed to disappear. It wasn’t a dramatic movie kiss or the kind people wrote songs about. It was better. It was familiar and new all at once, like coming home to a place she’d never been.

When they finally pulled apart, Cade rested his forehead against hers.

“You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“I spent four years thinking you’d never want a guy like me.” Emmy laughed softly.

“And I spent four years thinking you never noticed me.” Cade’s smile widened.

“Emmy Carter, I’ve been noticing you since freshman year.” The words settled somewhere deep in her heart.

As “I Only Have Eyes for You” echoed throughout the festival, Emmy realized something she’d gotten wrong all along.

She’d spent years believing she was the only one watching from afar.

Turns out, Cade Walker had been looking for her in every crowded room too, and for the first time, she wasn’t dreaming about someday. She was exactly where she wanted to be.

When I was sixteen years old, Boogie Nights, starring Mark Wahlberg, came out. I remember it well because there was a lot of buzz surrounding the movie’s infamous five-second full-frontal scene. People debated whether the Motion Picture Association would slap it with an NC-17 rating. In the end, it received an R because the scene was brief, non-erotic, and apparently essential to the story.

I’m still not entirely sure how those five seconds advanced the plot, but they certainly accomplished something: controversy, box office success, and endless conversations among teenage boys. I never actually saw the scene myself, but the boys at my school nicknamed it the “Diggler Jiggler,” which tells you everything you need to know about late-’90s culture.

Fast forward nearly thirty years, and what was once considered shocking now barely earns a second glance. Discretion hasn’t just left the building; it appears to have packed its bags and moved overseas.

The other day, my daughter and I settled in to watch a highly anticipated summer series based on a young adult book. We were minding our own business when, without warning, Boom!—Penises—Plural.

I’m not sure exactly how many seconds they were on screen because we immediately entered crisis mode. My daughter lunged for the remote, dropped it in a panic, I picked it up and somehow managed to press every button except the correct one, and after several seconds of increasingly frantic button-mashing, she finally solved the problem by unplugging the television altogether.

It was, without question, our family’s least coordinated emergency response.

Unfortunately, it’s not just movies and television. It’s books, too. What was once considered relatively safe territory for teenagers is becoming increasingly difficult for parents to navigate. The lines continue to blur, and whether we like it or not, the stories our children consume help shape the way they think about relationships, intimacy, and sex.

And honestly? Most teenagers don’t need additional encouragement in that department. I know I certainly didn’t.

So, what’s a mama to do?

Here’s my personal game plan:

• Have honest conversations about God’s design for sexuality and relationships, because if my kids are going to hear/see a thousand opinions about sex, love, and identity, I want them to hear God’s perspective most—from me. The greatest joy this side of heaven is found by walking the path He designed for us. Every shortcut promises a sense of freedom but will absolutely deliver heartache and consequences.

• Remember that children learn more from what we do than what we say. My actions will always preach louder than my lectures.

• Watch what they watch and read what they read. Not only has this created some of my favorite moments with my kids, but it communicates that I care enough to understand what captures their attention.

• Focus less on policing and more on discipleship. Our job isn’t to monitor everyone else’s reading list or streaming habits. It’s to encourage one another toward Christ. We can speak truth without self-righteousness and pursue holiness without losing compassion.

Good luck, parents. We’re all going to need it.

And as a dear friend of mine likes to remind her three daughters jokingly:

“Beware of the One-Eyed Snake.”

The blizzard arrived faster than Clara Wellington expected. One minute, she was navigating the narrow Cotswold lanes with all the confidence of a woman who had survived Atlanta traffic and once parallel parked a Suburban downtown. The next, she was sliding sideways through a wall of snow.

“Oh, no! No, no, no, no!” The rental car spun. A wooden village sign appeared out of nowhere. There was a loud crack, then silence. Clara sat gripping the steering wheel while snow drifted lazily past the windshield. The sign for Lower Ashcombe now leaned at a concerning forty-five-degree angle.

“Well,” she muttered. “That’s probably not ideal.”

As if the universe wanted to emphasize the point, every light in sight blinked out. The entire village disappeared into darkness.

“Oh, come on!”

Twenty minutes later, frozen, exhausted, and carrying approximately four bags she absolutely did not need for a three-week vacation, Clara trudged through knee-deep snow toward the stone cottage her parents’ college friends had rented her.

The storm howled viciously. Her brown hair whipped in the wind, no longer emphasizing her resemblance to Belle from Beauty and the Beast but a frightening Maleficent instead.

Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Snowflakes clung to her long lashes. She looked a mess. She felt homicidal.

By the time she found the cottage, her fingers were numb, and one boot was making a suspicious squishing sound.

The key was exactly where Mrs. Whitmore had promised it would be. Inside, the cottage was dark, completely dark. The power outage, apparently, wasn’t limited to just the sign she’d murdered or the village that resided down the road.

“Fantastic.”

Clara set down her bags and quietly explored through unfamiliar rooms with the flashlight on her phone. The cottage was charming in the aggressively British way she’d been promised—stone walls, exposed beams, a fireplace, and a surprising number of decorative ducks.

She found a bedroom upstairs and nearly cried with relief. At this point, she didn’t care about unpacking or showering. It was late, and she was exhausted. Clara kicked off her boots, shed her coat, rummaged through her carry-on for just the essentials—toothbrush, face wash, pajamas—managed to find the bathroom, and crawled beneath the thick blankets.

The bed was warm, oddly warm for it being so cold. Clara frowned, wondering if the bed was heated. Something felt off. Then, something moved. A large furry shape lifted its head—a dog, a very large dog. The dog stared at her for exactly half a second before enthusiastically licking her face.

“Oh my—”

Another shape shifted beside her—not a dog, a man—a man who was very definitely asleep—a man who opened one eye, then the other.

For several seconds, they simply stared at each other in utter shock. Clara’s brain stopped functioning because the man wasn’t a rugged sixty-year-old groundskeeper or a caretaker or anyone she could make sense of being there. The man was, in fact, devastatingly handsome. Dark hair fell across his forehead. He had a strong jaw, a slightly crooked nose that suggested a long-forgotten rugby injury, and very broad muscular shoulders.

His face was the sort of face that belonged on magazine covers and expensive cologne advertisements. It was the sort of face women wrote entire novels about. He blinked lazily. She blinked. The dog licked her cheek again as the man’s realization and panic were blatant as he mentally caught up to the situation at hand.

“Goodnight!” the man said in a British accent. He scared Clara to death—she screamed. The man screamed. The dog barked. Someone, in the midst of pure hysteria, knocked over a lamp. The dog became convinced this was the greatest game ever invented as he bounced from Clara to the man.

“What are you doing in my bed?” Clara shouted, backing up until her back hit the wall.

“Your bed?” the man shouted back. “You’re the one who climbed into bed with me!”

“I rented this cottage!” she exclaimed.

“I live here!” Mic drop. Clara slowed her breathing.

“You live here?” she processed.

“Why did you just say you rented it?”

“Because I did!” Clara insisted.

The dog wagged his tail so hard he nearly launched himself off the mattress. He jumped off the bed and into Clara as she slowly slid down the wall, trying to process everything.

“Oh, excellent,” the man muttered. “Marmalade likes you.”

The giant dog immediately climbed into Clara’s lap traitorously as though they’d been best friends for years. Clara looked from the dog to the man. The man looked from the dog to Clara. Snow battered the windows. The lights remained out, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang. It was midnight.

“Wonderful,” Clara said. The man folded his arms over his impressive chest and exhaled exasperatedly.

“Quite.”

Three hours later, after multiple phone calls, several apologies, and one conversation with her mother’s suspiciously cheerful friends and owners of the cottage, the Whitmores, Clara learned three things. First, the blizzard was the worst the village had seen in years. Second, the nearest hotel was two miles away and fully booked. Third, Henry was the Whitmores’ nephew who was living in the cottage for a few months.

“He’s wonderful,” Mrs. Whitmore assured Clara over the phone.

“The emphasis placed on the word made Clara immediately suspicious, very suspicious. She’d heard about Henry over the years due to her own mother’s relationship to his aunt. From what she had gathered, he was a bit of a mess—adventurous, lived by his own rules, a bit of a womanizer. The Whitmores were always trying to set him up with a “good girl.”

Looking across the cottage sitting room now, Clara had to admit she’d expected someone entirely different. She’d imagined a rugged country handyman, a lumberjack type, someone who spent weekends chopping wood and repairing fences—not this. Not the man currently moving comfortably through the kitchen, making them tea and a little midnight snack. Not the man whose face suddenly seemed dangerously familiar.

“You like to cook?” Clara asked, watching him chop some cheese and an apple with impressive knife skills. Henry laughed lightly.

“You could say that.”

Her eyes drifted to a cookbook displayed on the kitchen shelf. Then to him. Then back to the cookbook. Then back to him.

“Oh, my word.” Henry looked up.

“What?” he asked. Clara pointed.

“You.” She stammered. He frowned.

“What about me?” Henry asked defensively.

“I thought your name was Henry Whitmore, but you’re Henry Hartwell.”

“Last I checked.”

“The Henry Hartwell?” she asked. His expression immediately became pained.

“Oh no,” he turned his back on her.

“You wrote The Art of Simple Suppers.” His eyes closed.

“Please don’t say you’ve read it.”

“I’ve cooked every recipe,” Clara continued. Henry turned to look at her.

Clara stared back.

Marmalade sat between them, wagging happily, and for the first time since crashing into a village sign and accidentally climbing into a stranger’s bed, Clara forgot she was cold.

The storm outside showed no signs of letting up, and for reasons she wasn’t quite ready to examine, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it to.

The next four days passed in a rhythm neither of them expected.

The roads remained impassable. The village stayed buried beneath snow. The power flickered on and off whenever it pleased. Somewhere along the way, Clara stopped checking weather reports every hour because leaving had somehow become less urgent.

Mornings began with coffee by the fire, and Marmalade stretched across both their feet like a furry bridge between them. Afternoons were spent in Henry’s kitchen, or rather, Clara’s kitchen too now.

She discovered that Henry wasn’t merely charming and annoyingly handsome, he was thoughtful, funny, and a little absent-minded when he was creating. He scribbled recipe ideas on napkins and grocery receipts. He forgot where he’d left his reading glasses at least three times a day. He talked with his hands whenever he became excited about food, and apparently, he was struggling through the early drafts of a new cookbook.

“You’re blocked?” Clara asked one afternoon. Henry looked personally offended by the word.

“I’m not blocked.”

“You’ve stared at that notebook for forty-five minutes.”

“I’m thinking,” Henry said defensively. Clara looks over his shoulder.

“What in the world is Sir Rise-a-Lot?” She asked, pointing to his notes.

“It’s my sourdough starter.” Clara laughed so hard she nearly dropped the bowl she was holding. The sound made Henry smile before he could stop himself. By the second day, they were experimenting together. By the third, they were arguing over herbs.

“You use too much rosemary,” Henry instructed.

“There is no such thing as too much rosemary.”

“There absolutely is,” he protested.

“You’re British. Your opinions on herbs are invalid.”

He threw a dish towel at her. Marmalade immediately stole it and ran. Throughout the week, the cottage was filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of fresh bread, and every evening after dinner, they would settle near the fireplace and talk—not the polite conversations strangers have, the real ones—stories about heartbreak, dreams abandoned, and dreams rediscovered. The people they’d been. The people they hoped to become.

Clara told him why she’d needed this trip. How exhausted she’d become trying to build a life that looked perfect from the outside but felt increasingly empty. Henry admitted he’d hidden in the Cotswold’s because success had become louder than his own thoughts. Neither realized how much they were revealing until they found themselves sharing things they’d never told anyone else.

By the fourth morning, it felt less like being stranded and more like belonging. That afternoon, the village finally reopened. The roads were cleared. The phones worked again, and a room became available at the inn. Clara stared at the message longer than she should have.

“So,” Henry said quietly from across the kitchen.

“So.” The silence that followed felt unexpectedly heavy.

“You should probably take it,” he said.

Probably—the word landed somewhere near her heart. Clara nodded.

“Probably.”

Henry smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

That evening, after she’d carried her bags to the inn, there was a knock on her door. Frowning, Clara opened it to find the innkeeper standing there holding a bouquet of ivory roses and winter greenery tied with a velvet ribbon.

“For you, dear.” Clara’s heart skipped. Tucked among the flowers was a cream-colored card.

Miss Wellington,

Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner this evening?

Seven o’clock. Attire: Cocktail.

—Henry

A smile spread across her face before she could stop it. An hour later, after entirely too much deliberation over what to wear, there was another knock. When she opened it, Henry stood there. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. Gone were the quirky T-shirts and sweaters she’d grown accustomed to. He wore a tailored jacket that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His dark hair had been combed back. He looked devastatingly handsome. The kind of devastating that should come with a warning label.

Henry’s gaze drifted over her and stopped. Clara had spent entirely too long deciding what to wear— a deep crimson dress, loose curls, a touch of lipstick. His expression made every minute worthwhile.

“You look...” He paused. For perhaps the first time in his life, Henry Hartwell appeared speechless. Clara smiled.

“You clean up nicely yourself,” Clara filled the silence. His grin returned.

“There you are.” He offered his arm. She took it. The village glowed beneath fresh snow as they walked together through the evening. When they arrived back at the cottage, candlelight flickered through every window. Clara stopped.

“Henry.”

Inside, the dining table had been transformed—candles, fresh greenery, white linen, crystal glasses. The entire room shimmered with golden light.

“You did all this?” she asked. He looked suddenly nervous, which was somehow more attractive than confidence.

“I thought you deserved a proper farewell dinner,” Henry said. Clara’s chest tightened.

“Farewell.” She echoed the word. Henry’s smile faded slightly.

“Right,” he shook off his thoughts and escorted her to her seat. Dinner lasted nearly three hours. Every course was something he’d created while they’d been snowed in together. The soup she’d helped perfect. The bread they’d argued over. The roast they’d spent an entire afternoon testing. The dessert they’d nearly ruined because she’d distracted him by pirouetting around the kitchen to Frank Sinatra. Each dish carried a memory. Each memory felt like a thread pulling them closer.

By dessert, neither was pretending this was merely dinner anymore. The candles had burned low. Snow drifted gently beyond the windows, and Clara found herself staring at Henry the same way she’d spent days trying not to.

“I don’t want tonight to end,” she admitted softly. The honesty hung between them. Henry looked down at his hands, then back at her.

“Neither do I.” Everything inside her stilled. “I was trying to be sensible,” he continued.

“That’s unfortunate,” she practically whispered. A laugh escaped him.

“You make it very difficult,” Henry admitted.

“Good.”

His eyes warmed, and suddenly they were both smiling. The kind of smile that happens when two people finally stop fighting what has become obvious.

Henry stood and crossed the room. When he reached her, he held out his hand.

“Dance with me.”

“There isn’t any music.”

“There doesn’t need to be.”

Clara placed her hand in his. He pulled her gently to her feet, and there, in the middle of the little stone cottage that had started with a blizzard, a stowaway, and one very confused dog, they swayed together in candlelight—slowly, comfortably, like they’d been doing it forever. Henry rested his forehead against hers.

“You know,” he murmured, “most women wait until at least the third date before trying to climb into my bed.” Clara laughed.

“Well, I’m not like most women. I like making memorable first impressions.”

“You certainly managed that.” She smiled.

“I’ve been trying to decide when it happened,” Henry admitted.

“When what happened?” She looked confused.

“When you stopped feeling like the woman who accidentally wandered into my life and started feeling like someone who belonged in it.” Then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips, and this time neither of them looked away.

It was the kind of kiss that felt less like a beginning and more like finding something you’d been searching for without realizing it.

Outside, winter finally loosened its grip.

Inside, Clara discovered that sometimes the best journeys weren’t the ones you planned.

Sometimes they began with a blizzard, a wrong turn, and accidentally climbing into the right person’s bed.

I didn’t text her right away, not because I wasn’t thinking about her, but because I was thinking about her too much. I didn’t want to ruin things, so I knew I needed to treat her unlike any other girl.

Eloise Bennett did not get a casual text, “What are you up to?” She did not get spontaneity. She got orchestration.

By the time I knocked on her apartment door, I’d changed my shirt twice, not nervous necessarily, just wanting things to be perfect.

The door opened, and whatever composure I’d carefully constructed nearly failed me. Eloise was a vision—emerald silk, bare shoulders, hair down in soft, glossy caramel waves that made my hands itch with the instinct to test whether they were as smooth as they looked.

She blinked once when she saw me, just once, and I watched the exact second she decided to pretend she wasn’t affected.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I’m exactly on time,” I smiled, I couldn’t help it.

“For what?” she retorted.

“For you to open the door looking like that.”

Her lips twitched, Victory! She stepped aside to grab her bag.

“You’re very confident tonight,” she said, trying not to smile.

“No,” I said evenly. “I’m just done with hesitating.”

That made her look at me, really look at me, which gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, she was really going to give us a shot.

We walked out into the Paris evening, cobblestones catching the last gold of the sun. She was quiet for half a block. Then—

“What do you think Grayson’s going to say?” There it was, the only hovering dark cloud.

“He might be annoyed,” she said.

“He won’t,” I said assuredly. She stopped walking.

“You’re not worried?” she asked. I turned toward her fully.

“I’ve been worried for six years.” Her expression faltered slightly at that.

“You haven’t felt this way for six years,” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Of course I have.”

“Since when?” she dared me.

“Since that weekend you came to Georgia, before you went to New York and left me behind.”

She stared at me.

“Left you behind?” she asked, processing.

“I’ve been chasing you ever since. Trying to become the man you deserve.”

That silenced her. She sat with my words for several beats, but she moved passed them to focus on her main concern.

“Grayson’s going to think we hid this from him.”

“But we didn’t,” I tried to assure her.

I could tell that, until she felt this was resolved, we’d never have a chance. I’d never have a chance, so I exhaled once and started.

“He called me three weeks ago,” I began. She blinked.

“What?”

“Grayson actually told me that you were taking the Paris position.”

“Why would he do that?” She sat blinking.

“He knew I was moving there, too.”

She looked like she was calculating twelve different scenarios at once.

“He told me what flight you were going to be on,” I continued.

Her mouth fell open.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“He set this up?” she laughed with relief.

“He said if we were going to be idiots, we might as well be idiots in the same city.”

Silence.

Then her laugh broke through the tension, light and bright and so her, it almost knocked the air from my lungs.

“He knew,” she whispered.

“He’s known.”

“All this time?” she questioned.

“Yes,” I whispered back. She stared down at the street, then back up at me.

“And you?” she asked quietly.

“What about me?”

“You’ve felt…?” The question hung there.

“I’ve been in love with you for longer than I’ve been willing to admit,” I said evenly.

Her breath caught. I didn’t soften it. I didn’t retract it. I let it sit between us. She studied my face, searching for an exit ramp. I didn’t give her one. Finally, softly—

“Okay,” she said breathily.

That one little word meant everything.

There was a different air about dinner that night. I had found a quiet bistro tucked off the Seine. Candlelight, wine she liked, a soundtrack composed of Motown and Jazz played softly in the background. I reserved the table in the corner where no one could interrupt.

She stole food off my plate as her knee brushed mine. In one of her attempts to steal my last bite, I playfully snatched her wrist. I forced myself to let her go before I did something reckless.

We walked after dinner. Paris at night is dangerous, too romantic.

She shivered slightly, and I slid my jacket over her shoulders.

“You planned this,” she accused gently.

“I wish I could take the credit for the weather, but I’m definitely not complaining,” I said as she wrapped her arms around mine and snuggled into my side.

She stopped walking. I took another step before realizing she wasn’t beside me. When I turned, she was looking at me differently, no longer playful, but certain. I watched as a sudden realization washed over her.

“You waited,” she said.

“Yes.” I wanted to look away from her intensity, but I remained unwavering from her gaze.

“Why?” she asked, her vulnerability on full display.

“Because, to me, you’re worth waiting for.”

She stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her through the thin silk and my jacket that she burrowed into.

“I’ve been waiting for you, too,” she said.

That was the last thread of restraint snapping. I lifted my hand to her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone.

“Last chance,” I murmured.

“For what?” she breathed.

“To stop this before our story begins a new and wonderful chapter.”

She didn’t hesitate. Her hands slid up my chest, slow, deliberate, over my shoulders, and into my hair.

“You talk too much,” she whispered.

And then I kissed her. And all these years of waiting seemed so trivial compared to the feelings that exploded inside of me as I kissed Eloise Bennett, no longer just my best friend’s sister, but something way more.

I’d imagined this more times than I care to admit. It was better.

Her lips were so soft against mine, and when she leaned into me fully, something deep in my chest finally settled. Six years of “almost,” gone.

Her fingers tightened slightly in my hair. My hand moved to her waist, steadying her as the world tilted.

The river shimmered beside us. The city blurred. She made a soft sound against my mouth that nearly unraveled me. I slowed it down because this wasn’t something I was stealing. It was something we were stepping into.

When we finally pulled apart, her forehead rested against mine. She was smiling—glowing even.

“This,” she whispered, “was worth the wait.”

I brushed my thumb across her cheek.

“Me and you and Paris?” I asked.

She smiled wider.

“Me and you and Paris.”

Unit the next story,

Brooke

I saw her before she saw me—of course I did.

Eloise Bennett has never walked into a room quietly, even when she thinks she has. Not because she’s loud — she isn’t. It’s because she carries intention with her—focus, a kind of determined softness that pulls your attention whether you mean to look or not.

She was standing at the gate for the Paris flight with full-blown tunnel vision—AirPods in, passport clutched like a lifeline, boarding pass folded precisely in half, shoulders squared as if she were about to negotiate a merger instead of board a plane.

She didn’t see me leaning against the window ten feet away. Didn’t notice when boarding was initially called. Didn’t notice when I stepped into line behind her.

Six years. Six years of “almost,” and she walked straight past me. Definitely not the meet-cute I was hoping for, so I approached the airline agent and made a small adjustment.

By the time Eloise scanned her boarding pass, the Air France agent was congratulating her on a complimentary upgrade to first class. Eloise blinked at the new seat assignment like it was a clerical error the universe would soon correct.

She walked onto the plane still frowning at the ticket, slid into the wide first-class seat by the window, and immediately disappeared into her own head—AirPods back in, bag tucked neatly under the seat, attention already miles away as she looked to be practicing a breathing routine—eyes closed.

I settled into the Tempur Pedic recliner next to hers, just like I planned. What I hadn’t planned was her still being oblivious to my presence. My ego was definitely becoming bruised.

The attendant came around to offer warm towels and champagne. I took one of each for Eloise, unfolded her dining table from its hidden compartment, and placed the towel and flute on it.

Her long black lashes fluttered open, and she inhaled sharply.

“Well,” I said easily, “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to notice me.”

She slowly sat more erect and removed her earbuds.

“Harrison?”

There it was, the slight widening of her eyes, the color rising in her cheeks, the way her composure slipped just a fraction.

“In the flesh,” I flashed my most charming smile.

“How long have you been here?” She wasn’t overjoyed.

“Since the gate.”

Her jaw dropped. “You saw me?”

“Tunnel vision,” I said. “You possess very impressive focus.”

She covered her face with both hands. I couldn’t help but get tickled.

Man, I’d missed her.

The plane started moving, and she went still, too still.

“You don’t like flying,” I observed.

“I don’t like gravity being optional,” she whispered as the wheels lifted off the runway. Her hand shot sideways and latched onto my forearm with startling strength. I didn’t laugh. I just adjusted my arm, so she had something steady to hold onto.

“You’re okay,” I said quietly, covering her hand with my own.

“I know,” she said tightly, eyes shut. The plane dipped slightly, and her grip tightened.

“I am not using you as an emotional support person,” she muttered.

“You absolutely are,” I smiled. Not that I was complaining.

She turned and glared at me. Then, despite herself, she smiled, and there she was, my Elle. Not sharp, but warm, funny, and a little wild in the sexiest way.

She’d grown up since the last time I’d seen her properly. She wasn’t pretty anymore; she was beautiful, sophisticated.

I analyzed her cream-tailored trousers, black knit top fitted enough to suggest confidence without demanding it, vintage Chanel slingbacks she’d probably hunted down and restored herself, and gold hoops catching the cabin light.

She wore minimal makeup—she didn’t need it. Her hair was twisted into a low knot, soft strands framing her face. She looked like Paris already belonged to her.

“You’re moving to Paris,” I said.

“Yes,” she exhaled and nodded. “Got my dream job with Chanel.”

She’d been building toward this since she was nineteen and sitting at her parents’ kitchen table with fashion magazines spread out like architectural plans.

“You’re going to be extraordinary,” I said. She stilled.

“No one’s ever said that.” Eyes the color of scotch set aglow, met mine.

“I have.”

“When?” she asked shyly, breaking eye contact.

“Six years ago,” I said, heart pounding in my ears.

Her eyes flicked to mine.

“That wasn’t real for you,” she said sadly.

Oh, but it was. My mind went straight back to that night in Athens…

It was the weekend of the Tennessee game during her brother Grayson’s and my senior year at the University of Georgia.

Grayson had been my best friend since we were eight years old—long before either of us knew his little sister would grow up to be a problem.

She’d shown up in an oversized NYU sweatshirt, sleeves pulled over her hands, trying very hard to look unimpressed by everything.

She sat on the tailgate, reading, while we argued about defensive formations, occasionally glancing up at the chaos as if she were observing some strange American ritual.

And when she looked at me—just once—something shifted.

That night, after the win, I walked her back across campus. Sanford Stadium glowed behind us, the lights still humming against the dark sky. The air had sharpened with the promise of fall, cool enough that you could feel the season turning.

We were supposed to walk straight back to the alumni house, where her family was staying.

Instead, we ended up sitting on the stone steps across the quad for hours. At some point, I lost track of time.

I asked about New York, about NYU, about whether it was really as intimidating as everyone said.

She told me it was loud, chaotic, and perfect.

She said she wanted to work for a fashion house someday, building the campaigns around each season, the launches, the buzz before a collection ever hits the runway, real fashion, not just magazines or trends, but the kind that dictates the whole world’s fashion landscape.

“So basically,” I said, “you want to run Fashion Week.”

She shrugged. “Someone has to.”

“And then,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’m moving to France, at least that’s the goal.”

I laughed. “Isn’t that a big move?”

“Not for me, it’s my fate.” Her confidence was sexy.

“Paris?”

“Obviously.”

She said it so assuredly, I almost believed she already had an apartment there.

Elle asked about me. I told her my dad wanted me to take over the family law firm someday and move back to Dahlonega, a quaint hometown in Georgia.

She tilted her head. “Do you want to?”

“Not really,” I said, shocked that I was talking about this so openly.

“So, what do you want?” she asked as if she genuinely cared.

“High finance,” I said. “New York, big deals, fast pace. Something that feels like winning.”

She studied me for a moment like she was deciding whether I meant it.

“Well,” she said finally, “then that is absolutely what you will do.” I wanted her confidence.

“How?”

“You can work in finance in Paris,” she smiled a flirty grin that I didn’t know she was capable of. I laughed.

“And you’ll be designing clothes,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“So, we’ll be neighbors,” I couldn’t help but tease her.

She smiled then—really smiled—and something in my chest tightened.

“Obviously,” she said again.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, we decided that if we were going to live in Paris someday, we should probably start learning French.

We practiced the only words either of us knew.

“Bonjour,” she said.

“Bonsoir,” I replied.

She laughed. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m committed to improving.”

Eventually, she pulled the oversized sweatshirt over her head and tossed it beside her on the step. It did feel suddenly warm.

Underneath was a simple fitted tank top, and I realized suddenly that the little sister I remembered trailing behind Grayson during high school summers had completely disappeared.

Somewhere between then and now, she’d turned into a tall, striking woman with the kind of curves that made a man forget what he’d been about to say.

And just like that, my brain officially retired the phrase Grayson’s little sister.

She was Eloise, my Elle, someone I wasn’t remotely prepared for.

When she leaned closer to say something, I caught the faintest trace of her perfume—something light and clean, maybe jasmine—and it completely derailed whatever thought I’d been trying to finish.

The conversation slowed then, not awkward, just quieter.

We’d drifted closer without noticing. Her knee brushed mine. My hand rested on the stone between us, close enough that I could have reached for hers without even trying.

“You’re not a kid anymore,” I said before I could stop myself.

She looked up at me, steady, not embarrassed, not surprised, just aware.

Possessed, I brushed my thumb across her wrist, and in that moment, I knew two things with absolute certainty. First, that kissing Eloise would change everything. Second, that I was probably going to do it anyway.

Grayson would kill me, but that felt like a problem for later. I figured I’d act now and ask forgiveness tomorrow. I leaned closer. She didn’t move away.

For a second, the whole campus seemed impossibly quiet. The stadium lights glowed behind us, the trees barely moving in the cool air, and I had the strangest, most irrational thought—that if I kissed her right then, on those steps, my life might split into two parts—before Eloise, and everything that came after. I licked my lips and leaned in—

“HAARRRRISON!”

Grayson’s voice cut across the quad like a foghorn.

Drunk. Loud. Getting closer.

Eloise’s eyes widened, and she jumped to her feet.

“Oh my word.” She grabbed the sweatshirt and pulled it back over her head as she backed away toward the alumni house. “We should—”

“Yeah,” I said.

She turned, half running now, then stopped just long enough to look back at me.

“Text me sometime,” she said.

“In French,” I replied.

“Obviously,” she bit back a smile, and disappeared across the quad before I could say anything else.

A second later, Grayson stumbled into view, shouting something about finding pizza. I looked down and saw the football game ticket stub she’d dropped in the scramble.

Section 112.

Row G.

I picked it up and discreetly tucked it into my wallet without even thinking about it.

The memory faded as the plane jolted through a pocket of turbulence. As we both lay side by side, fully reclined and under warm blankets, she leaned into me without hesitation, in fear. My arm wrapped around her automatically. Her hand shifted from my sleeve to the front of my shirt, fingers flattening over my chest.

Right over my heartbeat.

I went very still. She felt it. Her eyes lifted to mine. We were inches apart. Her breath brushed my mouth. The world narrowed to the space between us. I could kiss her. She wouldn’t stop me. Her lips parted slightly. My thumb grazed her jaw, barely there. She didn’t pull away. Six years of restraint burned straight through me.

And then the doubt hit. What if she doesn’t feel the way I do? What if I’m about to make her first night on the way to Paris complicated? What if I ruin something that hasn’t even started yet? Her fingers curled slightly in my shirt. Memories of NYC flooded back, filling me with doubt, robbing me of my confidence.

I thought about that night more times than I’ll admit.

Two years after the almost kiss, I finally made it to New York. Eloise already belonged to a world that looked nothing like the one we’d imagined on those steps in Athens.

I worked in high finance now, long hours, custom suits, the kind of job where people spoke in numbers large enough to feel abstract.

I told myself I liked it because I was good at it, and I was, but the truth was—sometimes it just felt like noise.

I heard about Eloise in fragments. Grayson mentioned she’d started graduate school in the city, something to do with fashion marketing—a campaign strategist. The kind of thing she’d talked about years earlier, like it was already inevitable. Apparently, it was.

I kept wanting to reach out, but didn’t want to insert myself into her well-established life, so I didn’t.

The first time I saw her again, I almost didn’t recognize her.

It was a Thursday night in SoHo, one of those restaurants where the lighting was low enough to make everyone look important.

I was halfway through a second drink with a woman named Lila—brilliant, intimidating, worked in venture capital—when the entire room seemed to tilt slightly.

Eloise walked in. She wasn’t wearing an oversized sweatshirt anymore.

Her hair was longer, darker. She wore a dress that I’d dream about later that night, and heels that clicked softly against the floor. There was a kind of quiet confidence about her that hadn’t existed when she was nineteen.

She looked… gorgeous. New York had suited her, too well.

A guy at the end of the bar stopped mid-sentence as she entered.

Another one actually turned around to watch her walk by.

I hated both of them immediately, not because they were staring, but because I understood exactly why.

The girl who used to hover around the edges of Grayson’s life had grown into someone impossible to ignore. And the worst part? She didn’t seem to notice any of it. She was completely unaware that half the room had already taken inventory of her.

My grip tightened slightly on the glass in my hand because, for the first time, it occurred to me that maybe I hadn’t been the only one paying attention all these years.

And suddenly the idea of other men noticing her felt… unacceptable, which was a problem, a very large problem, because I had absolutely no claim to her.

None at all.

She was meeting someone. He was tall, European-looking, effortlessly put together in the way men who didn’t work eighty-hour weeks somehow managed to be. He leaned close to her as they spoke, and she laughed. I felt something sharp and immediate twist in my chest.

Across the room, her eyes lifted and landed on me. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then she smiled—polite, controlled. It was the kind of smile you give someone you used to know very well but weren’t sure you still did. My date followed my gaze.

“Friend?” Lila asked.

“Something like that,” I finished my drink.

Eloise said something to the man beside her, and they started toward our table. Of course, they did. New York had eight million people, and somehow this restaurant was still too small.

“Harrison,” she said when she reached us. Her voice hadn’t changed, which somehow made everything worse.

“Eloise.” I wrapped my arms around her, totally thrown when my hand spread over the warm, bare skin of her exposed back. My fingers involuntarily brushed it up and down delicately before letting the embrace go. She looked up at me, questioning, searching.

Up close, I noticed things I hadn’t from across the room—the ease, the way she carried herself as if she belonged everywhere she walked.

This wasn’t the girl who daydreamed with me on the steps outside Sanford Stadium. This was someone else entirely.

“This is Luca,” she said, gesturing to the man beside her. “He’s visiting from Milan.”

I instantly hated him.

“This is Lila,” I said. Introductions followed—polite, efficient, very adult.

Lila and Luca immediately began discussing something about venture capital and European startups, leaving Eloise and me in a strange pocket of silence. She studied me for a moment.

“You moved to New York.”

“You started grad school.”

“Looks like we both kept our promises, I guess,” she said, all traces of her prior confidence gone.

I laughed quietly.

“Except for the Paris neighbors’ part,” I replied.

Her smile flickered slightly.

“There’s still time.”

For a second, the noise of the restaurant faded, and I had the ridiculous thought that if we were sitting on those stone steps again, I might finally finish what I started that night, but we weren’t.

She had Milan, and I had venture capital, and somewhere along the way, we’d both become people the other wasn’t quite sure how to talk to anymore, and so we went our separate ways.

A few months after the SoHo run-in, I was back in Athens visiting Grayson for Memorial Day weekend.

We were sitting on his back porch watching a late game, the kind where neither team looked particularly interested in winning.

Grayson had a beer in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Eloise was in Paris last week,” he said casually. I tried very hard to sound like that information meant absolutely nothing to me.

“Oh yeah?”

“Fashion week stuff,” he said.

I wasn’t surprised at all.

He scrolled through something on his phone, then turned the screen toward me. It was a photo from some event—bright lights, a runway in the background, people in clothes that probably cost more than my first car—and there she was.

Eloise stood near the end of the runway, talking to someone, wearing a sleek black dress and heels that looked dangerous. Her hair was pulled back, and she had that same calm confidence I’d noticed in New York.

She looked like she belonged there, like the whole world we’d joked about on those steps had actually opened up and let her walk straight in.

“She’s killing it,” Grayson said.

“Looks like it.”

He took another sip of his beer.

“You know she thought you were kind of a jerk when you moved to New York.”

I blinked.

“I’m sorry—what?” I asked, thrown for a loop. Grayson shrugged.

“Yeah. Said you turned into some big Wall Street womanizer.” I nearly choked on my drink.

“A womanizer?” I coughed until I regained my composure.

“That was the word, yeah,” Grayson gave me a half smirk.

“Based on what exactly?” I set my beer down and folded my arms across my chest.

“I don’t know, man. Instagram maybe? You were always at some rooftop bar with different girls.”

I leaned back in the chair, running a hand through my hair. Those weren’t dates, they were coworkers and clients and sometimes just people who happened to be standing nearby when someone took a photo.

“She was dating that Milan guy,” I said. Grayson frowned.

“What Milan guy?”

“The one she was with when I ran into her in New York.”

“Oh. Luca,” he said, as if she talked about him, which immediately ticked me off.

“Right,” I bit out.

“Yeah, that lasted like three weeks,” Grayson snorted. I stared at him.

“Three weeks?”

“Yeah, he moved back to Italy.” I sat there for a moment, letting that information rearrange several months of assumptions.

“So, she thought I was a womanizer,” I said slowly.

“Pretty much,” Grayson nodded.

“Interesting,” I uncrossed my arms and picked my beer back up.

“Why?” he asked. I hesitated because the truth sounded ridiculous out loud.

“Because I thought she’d outgrown me.”

Grayson turned toward me like I’d just said something deeply stupid.

“Outgrown you?” he laughed.

“Yeah.”

“You?” he repeated.

“She’s… different now,” I shuddered. “You should see her up there in her element. She’s intimidating.”

Grayson laughed so hard he nearly spilled his beer.

“Harrison, she’s been half in love with you since she was nineteen.” The porch went quiet.

“Shut up, man. You’re kidding,” I sat up taller, needing more intel.

“Nope.” He leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Not that you care, right?” he was baiting me.

“I’m just shocked, is all,” I said, my heart thrumming in my ears.

“The real problem is you’re both idiots.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Gosh, Harrison! I’m not blind. You’re my best friend. You think I don’t know how you’ve felt?” My cheeks burned.

“Regarding?” I questioned him.

“Don’t make me say it, this is weird enough for me as it is,” he exhaled like the weight of the world rested on him. Then he slid a piece of paper across the coffee table. “I haven’t told you yet, but she’s moving to Paris, too,” he chugged the remains of his beer and slammed the bottle down a little hard. “She doesn’t know about your transfer, but it’s too damn coincidental for me not to at least let you know,” he eyes the paper. “That’s her Paris flight and her address once she’s over there. Do with this information what you will.” I eyed him suspiciously, processing everything he said and didn’t say. Slowly, I leaned over and pocketed the piece of paper.

“So how do you think the dawgs are going to do this season?” he asked without missing a beat, and that was that.

I couldn’t help but grin.

“Elle,” I said quietly, still not believing we were both headed to Paris, just like we dreamed up.

Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard it. “Yes?”

I hesitated half a second too long, and I saw it—the flicker. Asking herself, what if I’m misreading this? That look wrecked me, but it gave me the courage I needed. So, I reached into my wallet and unfolded the worn red-and-black rectangle I’d carried for six years. Her breath caught.

“Section 112?” she whispered, questioning.

“You dropped it,” I said. “When Grayson called my name that night.” She stared at me.

“You kept this?” She swallowed back emotion.

“For six years,” I said point-blank.

“Why?” It was one word, but it carried so much weight.

“Because that was the first night I realized if I kissed you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Silence.

“I didn’t,” I added. “Because you were nineteen. And I wasn’t sure you felt it too,” I admitted, but that was before Grayson gave me hope to dream.

The plane dipped, and the fasten seatbelt sign chimed.

Her fingers tightened against my chest—seconds passed.

“I did,” she said softly, looking away. Everything inside me went still.

“You did?”

“I thought you didn’t.”

Six years. Wasted on misreading restraint as indifference. The plane began its descent. Paris lights flickered faintly beneath us.

“This is messy,” she whispered.

“It could be.”

“I don’t want to be a fling in Paris,” she started to pull back. I stopped her.

“You’re won’t be,” I said immediately. She searched my face for doubt, but there wasn’t any. “Just dinner,” I said more gently. “One night. No pressure. No expectations.”

“And if it’s terrible?”

“It won’t be,” I said without a doubt.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” she flirted.

“I’m not sure about everything,” I admitted. “But I’m sure about us.”

The wheels hit the runway. She jolted and grabbed my hand, but she didn’t let go when the plane slowed or when the cabin lights brightened, or when all the passengers stood.

She looked up at me, steady now.

“Dinner,” she said, decidedly.

“Dinner,” I agreed, trying not to beam.

Our faces drifted close again, closer than before. Her breath was warm against mine, steady now. The faintest trace of vanilla clung to her skin.

I could have kissed her. She would have let me, but the first time I kissed Eloise Bennett—it wasn’t going to be on a plane. It wasn’t going to be borrowed from turbulence and adrenaline and years of longing. It was going to be deliberate, unrushed—in Paris.

And when I finally did—she wouldn’t wonder if I meant it.

Because after six years of living separate lives, we were finally about to begin our chapter.

Until the next story,

Brooke

By February, my trip to Hallstatt was no longer theoretical.

Condé Nast had approved everything—four days, expenses covered, and eight hundred words on the ideal place to travel for half term. Half term—such a distinctly British phrase. The rest of Europe called it ski holidays, which sounded far more honest about everyone’s intentions.

I had nodded through the meeting with my editor, pretending it was no big deal to be sent alone to an Austrian village in winter, as if I didn’t crave a break—or company.

Now, I stood at the window of the Edelweiss Inn and watched people who clearly belonged here.

Hallstatt was beautiful in the way postcards were beautiful, composed, curated, impossibly intact. Snow softened the sharp edges of the village and clung to rooftops and pine branches like it had settled there permanently. The mountains rose beyond everything, white and endless, less like a landscape and more like a backdrop.

Tourists moved through the narrow streets below in bright coats and confident strides, skis slung over their shoulders like extensions of themselves. They laughed easily, leaning into each other, unbothered by the cold.

I watched them and felt like I had arrived late to a life everyone else had already learned how to live.

Back home in Alabama, February was warmer, the beginning of Spring. It meant damp air and unfinished puzzles spread across the dining room table. It meant my dad pretending not to care about losing while my brothers cheated openly at a game of cards. It meant my mother cooking too much food out of habit, like she couldn’t stop preparing for a version of us that still lived under the same roof.

Christmas had passed without me.

My first one away.

I had told myself it didn’t matter. That this job—this opportunity—was worth it. That missing one holiday was the cost of becoming someone I’ve always dreamt of—someone who went places, someone who didn’t settle.

Hallstatt in winter was a strange place to be lonely. Everything about it insisted you shouldn’t be.

The bell above the inn’s door chimed softly behind me.

“You made it back alive.”

I turned.

Rowan stood just inside the entryway, snow dusting his shoulders, dark hair damp where flakes had melted into it. He carried a crate of firewood in both hands like it weighed nothing at all, like cold and gravity operated differently for him.

“I wasn’t aware it was that dangerous,” I said.

He set the crate beside the hearth with quiet precision.

“You’ve been walking on ice,” he said, glancing down at my feet, “in shoes meant for optimism, not survival.”

I followed his gaze to my boots.

“They’re designer,” I said defensively.

His mouth curved faintly, like he had expected that answer long before I gave it.

Rowan had been the first person I’d met when I arrived two days ago. He had handed me the key to my room without ceremony, his fingers brushing mine just long enough for me to notice—and long enough for my body to react in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

“You’re American,” he’d said.

It hadn’t been a question.

“Is it that obvious?” I’d asked.

“You apologized to the door when it hit you.”

I had laughed, embarrassed.

He hadn’t laughed with me. He had just watched me, calm and steady, like he was observing something rather than participating in it.

Now, he crouched beside the hearth and adjusted the fire with practiced ease. Flames rose obediently under his hands, filling the room with a deeper, steadier warmth.

I watched him longer than I should have.

There was something about him that made stillness feel intentional. Like he wasn’t waiting for anything. Like he had already arrived at whatever life he meant to live.

“This weekend,” I said finally, breaking the silence before it could settle too deeply, “I’m supposed to try skiing.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder.

“Supposed to?”

“For research,” I said quickly. “My editor wants the full experience.”

He studied me then, his expression unreadable but attentive in a way that made me feel suddenly transparent.

“Have you ever skied before?”

The truth hovered briefly on my tongue.

No. Never. Not even once, I thought to myself.

But something about the way he watched me made honesty feel like surrender.

“Yes,” I said.

The lie landed between us, fragile and obvious.

He nodded once.

“Good.”

The word wasn’t reassuring.

If anything, it felt like the beginning of something I wasn’t entirely prepared for.

And somehow, impossibly—I found myself looking forward to it anyway.

—

I should not have been skiing that morning.

I knew it before I even forced my feet into the stiff, unforgiving ski boots. The sky hung low and gray, heavy with the promise of more snow, and the air had that sharp, metallic bite that warned of storms rolling in. The kind that swallowed roads and rearranged plans without apology.

But Rowan had stood there beside me, patient and steady, his gloved hands adjusting the strap at my wrist as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for him to touch me, to take care of me.

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

I wasn’t sure whether he meant the skiing or something else entirely.

I pushed off before I could think about it too much.

The slope wasn’t steep. That was the problem. It gave me just enough confidence to be reckless.

Snow whispered beneath my skis as I moved, the world reduced to white and breath and the distant silhouette of dark pines. For a moment, it felt like flying. Like escape.

And then my edge caught.

It happened so fast I barely had time to register the shift before I was tipping sideways, gravity yanking me down. The sky lurched. The ground rushed up.

I hit the snow with a soft, humiliating thud.

Air burst from my lungs in a startled laugh before I could stop it, and then—another impact.

Warmth. Weight. Rowan.

He had tried to stop, I realized dimly, tried and failed.

He landed half across me, one arm braced beside my shoulder, his body shielding mine from the cold. Snow clung to his dark hair and lashes, melting slowly against skin flushed from exertion.

For a second, neither of us moved. His face hovered inches from mine. His breath came in visible bursts, mingling with my own. His eyes, normally sage or emerald, were now darker than the storm above us, searching my face as if he were trying to memorize it.

“Are you hurt?” he asked in a soft rumble.

I shook my head, though my heart pounded hard enough to convince me otherwise.

His gaze dropped to my mouth. The world narrowed to that single point of awareness. His lips parted slightly, and something shifted in his expression, something unguarded.

He leaned closer, and my pulse stuttered. This was it. He was about to kiss me—and then.

I sneezed. It burst out of me without warning, sudden and violent, right onto his gorgeous face. Horror flooded through me instantly.

“Oh my Gosh,” I whispered, mortified.

Rowan froze.

For half a second, he simply stared at me, snow melting on his lashes, my sneeze undoubtedly cooling on his skin.

“I’m so—,” I sneezed again, and again. Each one worse than the last, my body betraying me completely. I wanted the mountain to swallow me whole.

Rowan blinked, then huffed out a quiet laugh. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… warm.

“Well,” he said gently, reaching up to wipe his cheek with his glove, “that answers that.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice thick already. “I don’t know why—”

Another sneeze cut me off.

His expression shifted immediately, humor replaced by concern.

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted weakly, even as a shiver betrayed me.

He didn’t argue. He simply stood, then reached down and pulled me effortlessly to my feet. Except for the moment I put weight on my skis, the world tilted unpleasantly.

Rowan noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Before I could protest, he crouched slightly and said, “Arms.”

“What?”

“Put your arms around my neck.”

My stomach flipped. “Rowan—”

“Ellie.” My name, spoken like that, wasn’t a request. It was a firm demand.

I obeyed. The moment my arms circled his shoulders, he lifted me as if I weighed nothing at all. I gasped, instinctively tightening my grip on him.

His body was warm, solid, steady in a way that made the storm feel suddenly very far away.

“I can walk,” I protested weakly.

“Not today,” he said.

Snow fell harder around us as he carried me down the slope, each step sure despite the conditions. I rested my cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of pine and cold and something unmistakably him. He tightened his grip around me.

I told myself it was the fever making everything feel sharper, closer. I told myself not to read into it.

But I leaned in.

By the time we reached the inn, my teeth were chattering uncontrollably.

Rowan didn’t hesitate. He carried me straight upstairs, into my room, and set me gently on the bed.

“Stay here,” he said.

I would have laughed at the absurdity of the command if I’d had the strength.

He returned minutes later with blankets, tea, and a basin of iced water.

“You don’t have to—” I began.

“Yes,” he said simply.

He moved with quiet efficiency, draping blankets around me, pressing the warm mug into my hands, brushing damp strands of hair from my forehead with surprising tenderness.

His hand lingered there.

“You’re burning up,” he murmured.

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look convinced.

The storm intensified outside, wind rattling the windows, snow piling against the glass. The world beyond the inn disappeared entirely.

Time blurred after that.

Sleep came in fractured pieces. I drifted in and out, aware only of warmth and cold in alternating waves.

Each time I surfaced, Rowan was there—adjusting the blankets, pressing a cool cloth to my forehead, helping me drink water.

Once, I woke to find him sitting beside the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed but not fully asleep. He hadn’t left. Guilt tugged at me.

“You should sleep.”

His eyes opened instantly. “I am.”

“That’s not sleeping.”

“It’s enough.” It wasn’t, but he stayed anyway.

At some point in the night, the fever climbed higher. I shivered violently despite the blankets. Without a word, Rowan lay down beside me—on top of the covers, fully clothed, careful, distant, respectful.

His warmth radiated through the layers between us. He was like my very own weighted blanket—it helped.

I must have fallen asleep again, because when I woke, the room was pale with early morning light even though the storm still raged outside.

But something had changed. I was warm, but not just warm, held.

My head rested against Rowan’s chest. One of his arms curved loosely around me, his hand resting lightly at my back as if it had found its way there without permission.

Sometime during the night, the distance he’d so carefully maintained had vanished. I stilled, afraid to break the moment. His breathing was slow and even beneath my ear. I tilted my head slightly. His eyes were open, watching me.

Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke. But something passed between us then. Something fragile and undeniable.

“You’re cooler,” he said quietly. I realized he meant the fever.

“Thank you,” I whispered, “for taking such good care of me.”

His fingers shifted slightly against my back. Not pulling me closer. Not pushing me away, just there. We stayed like that longer than we should have.

Long enough for the silence to become its own language.

I recovered slowly over the next two days.

The storm never let up. Snow buried the roads. The outside world ceased to exist.

It was just the inn, just Rowan.

He brought me tea even when I didn’t ask, sat beside me while I read, though he rarely turned the pages of his own book, and watched me in quiet moments when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

We existed in a strange, suspended space—neither guests nor strangers, but something else entirely.

The almost-kiss lingered between us, unfinished. It lived in the pauses, in the way his fingers brushed mine when passing a mug, in the way his gaze dropped to my mouth before he caught himself.

Once, standing near the window, I turned too quickly and collided with him. His hands caught my waist. My breath caught with them. We froze. He looked down at me the same way he had on the mountain—slowly, carefully. Like he was giving me time to step away.

I didn’t.

He leaned closer. Close enough that I could feel his breath. Close enough that I knew—

Suddenly, a sound downstairs broke the moment—a shutter slamming, the wind pressing hard against the frame, the storm reminding us it was still there. Reality intruded.

Rowan stilled, his hands still resting lightly at my waist, his breath warm against my cheek. For a moment, I thought he would do what he had done every time before—step back, let me go.

He did step back, of course he did, but not far. Not far enough to undo the way his hands lingered, or the way his eyes stayed on mine, searching, like he was standing at the edge of something he had spent his entire life avoiding.

Neither of us spoke. The silence stretched between us, fragile and heavy.

I felt it then—the inevitability of leaving, the article unwritten, the return flight already booked, the version of my life that existed beyond these walls, waiting to reclaim me.

This had always been temporary.

I had always known that.

Hadn’t I?

His jaw tightened slightly like he had come to the same conclusion.

He exhaled once, slow and deliberate.

“I don’t want this to end,” he said.

The words were quiet.

But they landed harder than anything else he could have said.

My breath caught.

“Neither do I,” I admitted.

The confession felt dangerous. Like stepping onto ice that might not hold me.

His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth.

Then back to my eyes.

He lifted his hand slowly—carefully, like he was giving me time to refuse—and brushed his fingers along my cheek. His touch was warm, grounding, steady despite everything unraveling beneath it.

“You should stay,” he said.

I frowned slightly, my heart already racing ahead of me. “Stay?”

His hand didn’t leave my face.

“I don’t want to know this place without you in it.”

The simplicity of it shattered me.

Not dramatic. Not desperate.

Just true.

The inn. The fire. The quiet. Him.

He wasn’t asking me to stay for the storm.

He was asking me to stay for him.

My throat tightened. “Rowan…”

His thumb brushed lightly beneath my eye, though I hadn’t realized tears had formed.

“I know you have a life,” he said. “I know you have somewhere else to be. But since you walked through that door, this place has been… different.”

His voice faltered slightly, and I realized how rare that was.

“How?” I whispered.

His eyes softened.

“Like it’s not just something I inherited,” he said. His voice was quieter now. “It feels like home again.”

The word settled into my chest and stayed there.

No one had ever said something like that to me before. Not with certainty. Not like it was fact rather than hope.

“I don’t want to pretend I can go back to before,” he said. “I don’t want to watch you leave and tell myself it didn’t matter.”

My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could feel it between us.

“I don’t want this to be something that almost happened.”

The air between us disappeared.

Every almost. Every unfinished moment. Every breath held too long.

I didn’t realize I was moving until my hands found his chest, until I felt the steady strength of him beneath my palms.

“I don’t want that either,” I whispered.

That was all it took.

He closed the distance between us like he had been waiting his entire life to do it.

His hand slid gently to the back of my neck, and he kissed me.

Not tentative.

Not hesitant.

Certain.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was everything we hadn’t allowed ourselves to have until now.

His lips were warm and firm against mine, and when I leaned into him, he pulled me closer, one arm wrapping around my waist like he had no intention of ever letting me go.

The world outside—the storm, the mountains, the life I had come from—fell away completely.

There was only this.

Only him.

Only us.

I kissed him back with everything I had been holding in since the moment I first saw him standing in the doorway, snow on his shoulders and quiet in his eyes.

He exhaled against my mouth, like relief.

Like arrival.

When we finally pulled apart, it was only far enough to breathe.

His forehead rested against mine.

“Stay,” he said again, softer now.

Not a demand.

Not even a question.

A truth waiting to be accepted.

I thought of Alabama—of flights and deadlines and expectations, of the version of myself I had been before I ever knew this place existed.

And I thought of mornings here—of firelight and snow, and his hand finding mine like it belonged there.

I realized, suddenly, that nothing was waiting for me there the way he was waiting for me here.

I smiled.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Something in his expression broke open then—not into relief, but into something deeper. Something steadier.

He kissed me again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world.

And for the first time since I arrived, I believed that maybe I did too.

Outside, the storm continued.

But inside the inn, I was already home.

Until the next story,

Brooke

I didn’t want to go.

That teensy-weensy fact got lost every time my parents said things like “opportunity” and “expand your horizons,” as if those phrases were enough to pack a suitcase for me.

I had been offered a “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity” to study in Rome for the entire spring semester of my junior year of college. I loved majoring in architecture—I did—but did I really need to study abroad to set myself apart? My parents were acting like the city itself had personally invited me.

I wanted my room with my books stacked unevenly on the floor, and my journal beside the bed, pages half-filled with thoughts that never quite made it out loud. I wanted my dog—Harry Styles—pressed against my legs at night like a warm, grounding promise that he loved me just as I was, unconditionally.

Rome promised the opposite, but my parents and academic advisor didn’t seem to care.

After a twelve-hour flight sitting between a breastfeeding mother of a three-year-old and a newlywed couple enthusiastically reacquainting themselves with each other’s bodies, I was nearly giddy to be in Italy. Jet-lagged, rumpled, clinging to sanity—but slightly giddy. Rome, as it turned out, did not care.

The city exhaled directly into my face. Scooters darted past ruins older than my entire country. Laundry hung from balconies like punctuation marks in conversations I couldn’t hear. Everything was louder than I was—more confident, more demanding, more bold about taking up space.

I studied architecture during the day—ruins layered beneath churches, churches layered beneath apartments, centuries refusing to stay in their proper lanes. Rome didn’t preserve its history; it lived on top of it. In my free time, I sketched ruins, buildings, and columns that were cracked with time and wondered if people could be like that too—still standing, even when imperfect.

At first, I tried to disappear.

I lived in Trastevere, where the streets narrowed like they were testing your resolve. I spent hours alone with my camera, photographing arches and shadows, anything that didn’t look back at me. I wrote in cafés early in the morning, before the tourists arrived, when the city felt quieter and more forgiving. When strangers glanced my way, I told myself it meant nothing.

I had always known the facts about myself—tall, blue-eyed, curves that earned comments I pretended not to hear—but facts don’t become truths unless you believe them, and I never had.

Then I met Leo.

He was tall in that effortless way—dark hair, sharp smile, the kind of handsome that didn’t try for attention and got it anyway. Not born in Rome, but close enough that the city seemed to recognize him as one of its own. He studied law at the university and carried himself like someone who knew where he was going, even if he hadn’t decided yet.

It happened near the Tiber, late afternoon, light bouncing off the water like it had something to prove. I dropped my camera—again—and he caught it before it hit the stone.

“You photograph Rome like you’re afraid it might notice you,” he said, half-smiling.

I told him I liked buildings, lines, and structure.

“Rome isn’t about structure,” he said. “It’s about survival.”

Leo moved through the city as if it belonged to him, crossing streets without hesitation, ordering espresso without glancing at a menu, greeting people by name, like Rome was a small town instead of a sprawl of chaos and history. Baristas waved him off before he could pay. Friends called out to him from across piazzas. Strangers greeted him like they’d shared a class or a story once, even if I suspected they hadn’t. He wasn’t famous—just known. Loved in a way that came from showing up.

He wore confidence like it was learned young and never questioned, but his confident swagger softened around me.

He slowed down and matched my stride without comment. When I stopped to photograph something—a chipped statue, light catching on old stone—he didn’t rush me or tease me for it. He watched, curious, like the way I saw the world was something worth waiting for.

“You notice things most people walk past, Phoebe,” he said once, leaning against a wall while I adjusted my lens. “For locals, that’s rare here.”

“I like details. Is that weird?” I whispered, afraid of his judgment.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you’re more self-assured than you think.”

He asked questions—not the polite kind, but real ones—what I like to read, why architecture, what I missed about home. He listened like my answers mattered to him, as if they weren’t just filling silence. When I hesitated, he didn’t fill the space for me. He let quiet exist between us, and somehow that made it easier to be myself.

Little by little, he nudged me outward.

He brought me into his orbit. Long dinners that stretched late into the night, crowded tables where his friends argued passionately about politics, music, football, and nothing at all. They were law students, art students, locals, almost-locals—loud, affectionate, endlessly curious. They welcomed me without question, passing wine, asking about my classes, teasing Leo like they’d known him forever. I adored them instantly.

He ordered for me when my Italian faltered, then made me repeat it the next time, smiling like he already knew I’d get it right. He introduced me to people without framing me as the shy American girl, but just Phoebe, like that was explanation enough. When I apologized for talking too much—or not enough—he shook his head and said, “You don’t need to apologize for being you, Phoebe. You are perfect exactly the way you are.”

I started believing him.

That night, he took me somewhere loud and alive.

A small bar near Campo de’ Fiori, music pulsing through the floor, lights low and forgiving. He ordered wine for us without asking—red, local, something I couldn’t pronounce. I expected it to burn the way boxed wine back home did, sharp and apologetic.

Instead, it was warm and rich and tasted as if it belonged to Rome.

“Good wine doesn’t need to announce itself,” Leo said, watching my reaction. “You just notice it.”

I felt something then—recognition, maybe.

We danced because there was nowhere else to stand. At first, awkwardly, then less so. His hands were confident but not demanding, guiding rather than claiming. The music blurred, the room softened, and for once, I wasn’t thinking about how I looked or where my hands were supposed to go.

I was just living.

When Leo kissed me, it wasn’t rushed or cautious. It was sure and intentional, like he already knew I’d say yes. It was the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission because it’s been answered in a hundred smaller ways already.

For the first time, I felt desirable—not for how I looked, but for all the little things that made me, me.

He rested his forehead against mine afterward, smiling like he knew exactly what he’d done.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah.”

And I meant it.

Leo took me places I wouldn’t have found on my own after that night—midnight walks past the Pantheon when the crowds thinned, a jazz bar tucked behind Santa Maria in Trastevere, where the music was imperfect and alive.

He never acted like he was showing me the world.

He acted like I already belonged in it.

“You know people see you, right?” he said once, sitting beside me on a low wall overlooking the river.

I laughed it off out of habit.

“No,” he said, serious now. “They look at you like you’re something steady in all this noise.”

I glanced at him. The evening light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curled just enough to be untamed but deliberate. There was something in the way he looked at me—not lust, not mockery—but an interest that made me want to stand taller, even as my stomach did little flips.

Rome hummed around us—voices, engines, footsteps echoing over ancient stone—and for the first time, I felt it, the weight of my own presence. The way I occupied space without apology. I realized that when he looked at me like that, I wasn’t invisible—I was seen.

I started raising my head when I walked. Dressing like I didn’t need to shrink. Speaking in class even when my voice trembled. My photographs weren’t just about architecture anymore—they captured life: faces, gestures, laughter mid-motion. I let myself linger on moments, not worrying if anyone else noticed.

And sometimes, just sometimes, I felt Leo’s gaze on me, quietly approving, as if to say: you belong here, you exist, and that is more than enough.

The city responded.

Rome didn’t soften, but it welcomed me. Professors lingered over my sketches and praised me. Strangers smiled. I laughed louder, easier, like something had been unlocked. I realized architecture wasn’t just about buildings—it was about how space teaches you who you are allowed to be.

Later, on a rooftop overlooking Rome, we sat in silence. The city stretched endlessly, domes and antennas tangled together under the same sky. Leo’s gaze found mine. “You’re different,” he said softly.

“A semester in Rome can do that,” I replied, smiling. But it wasn’t just the city. It was me.

The romance was never meant to last. We both knew it. Rome had him. Home had me. We didn’t make promises we couldn’t keep.

The airport, however, had a different plan.

I should have walked straight to the gate. I should have waved and let the moment fade into memory, but instead, I paused. I turned back to him, my hand hovering on the edge of the gate.

Leo’s eyes widened. “Phoebe—I—”

I didn’t give him a chance to speak. I kissed him, fully, unapologetically, pouring every stolen glance, every laugh, every rooftop sunset, every warm glass of red wine into that single moment. When I finally pulled back, his mouth and hands were frozen mid-air, and I realized he wasn’t sure if I was still the same girl he’d known.

“I’ll see you,” I said, voice steady. “One day.”

And I meant it.

The plane lifted. The city shrank beneath me, but I didn’t. I was bold, alive, fully present.

When I returned home, Harry Styles barreled into me like he was afraid I might vanish again. My parents asked if Rome had changed me.

I told them, “No, it unearthed the girl I was always meant to be.”

The truth was, Rome showed me how to stand my ground, to take up space, to notice and be noticed, to savor life—wine, rooftops, ruins, kisses—and own it.

Rome will always be there for me, and maybe one day, architecture—or curiosity, or fate—will bring me back—back to the city, back to him.

For now, though, I’m here, and I’ve never been more myself.

I still love quiet mornings, books, journaling, and being home, but now I carry Rome with me—the confidence of ruins that don’t apologize for their cracks, the certainty that taking up space isn’t arrogance, it’s honesty.

I know how the world sees me now.

And finally, I did too.

Until the next story,

Brooke

My grandmother believed three things with absolute conviction: that a woman should always carry red lipstick in her handbag, that pearls go with everything, and that life was far too short to behave sensibly all the time.

So, when she died and left me her fortune—along with a single, maddening instruction—I wasn’t entirely surprised.

Go to France, Eliza—somewhere you can get lost.

I stood in my London flat, jet-lagged from grief rather than travel, and told the empty room that I didn’t speak French well enough to get lost on purpose, that I wasn’t the kind of woman who was up to running away after heartbreak. That I had responsibilities.

Her handwritten note glared back at me, judgmental-like.

My grandmother, who once eloped with a jazz pianist she’d met on a ferry, would have laughed herself breathless at the sight of me.

So, two weeks later, I was in France, in a town so quaint it felt like the inspiration for a Disney movie—cobbled streets, green shutters, a church bell that rang whenever it pleased. I checked into a tiny hotel with slanted floors and lace curtains and told myself I was here to honor her.

On my first afternoon exploring the village that I’d instantly fallen in love with, the sky split open without a warning, as though it had made a sudden decision and saw no reason to consult me.

I barely had time before the first drop soaked through my coat. By the time I reached the corner, the street had emptied, shutters snapped closed, and the cobblestones were slick beneath my shoes. I ran—not elegantly, not bravely—laughing despite myself as my bag thudded against my hip.

I ducked into the first open space I saw: a narrow alley, dim and smelling faintly of stone and citrus peel. At the end of it, a door stood ajar.

Warmth spilled out.

I hesitated only a second before pushing it open.

Inside, the air was dry and honeyed with the scent of old paper. A bell chimed softly overhead. I stood dripping on a worn rug, rain threading down my hair, unsure whether I’d stumbled into a shop or someone’s private home.

Books lined the walls—floor to ceiling, spine to spine, unruly and unapologetic. They were stacked in places they had no business being stacked, as if gravity had simply stopped arguing. Toward the back, beyond a gauzy curtain of golden lights, was a long communal room with wooden tables polished smooth by time and hands—and notes.

They were everywhere—slipped between pages, pinned to corkboards, resting in small ceramic bowls. A hand-lettered sign read, Take a note and leave a note.

I felt something shift in my chest—an ache that felt suspiciously like recognition.

“First time?” a woman’s voice asked.

At the counter sat an older woman with silver hair swept into a bun and lipstick just a shade too bold to be accidental. She watched me over the rim of her glasses, amused.

“I—yes,” I said, peeling my damp coat from my shoulders. “I was just trying not to drown.”

“Rain has a way of delivering people exactly where they’re meant to be,” the woman said, and gestured vaguely. “You’re welcome to stay.”

I smiled, unsure why my eyes stung.

I wandered, fingertips brushing spines, until I noticed the wall beside the counter.

It was fitted with narrow wooden mail slots, like those found in an old hotel or a village post office—each one slightly different, their edges softened by use. Some were empty. Some held folded pages, their corners peeking out like secrets waiting to be claimed. None were labeled with names—only small symbols: a star, a leaf, a crescent moon.

“What are those?” I said.

“Correspondences,” the woman said simply.

I frowned. “Between…?”

“People,” she replied. “Once two strangers begin writing back and forth, they’re given a place to keep finding each other.”

The phrase lodged somewhere deep.

I reached for a small table near the window, the rain tapping insistently against the glass, and found a pen resting there—as though it had been left just for me. I picked up a blank card, and my hand hovered.

I thought of my grandmother, and of the note tucked into the lining of my suitcase—Somewhere you can get lost.

I wrote before I could talk myself out of it.

I don’t know why I ran in here. I’ve just lost someone who tried to teach me how to be brave. I’m trying desperately to make her proud. Do you know what it’s like to miss a voice that you will never hear again?

When I finished, I folded the paper once, then again, and carried it to the counter.

The woman took it, glanced at me with something like approval, and slid it into an empty slot.

No symbol marked it yet.

But as I turned back toward the rain, I could have sworn I heard the soft scratch of a knife behind me—adding something small, almost imperceptible, to the wood.

The next morning, I returned.

I told myself it was for the books or the coffee they served in mismatched cups or the way the rain-streaked windows made everything feel suspended in time.

I pulled a note from the slot marked delicately with a carved ampersand. I gently ran my fingers over the grooves. Grandmother loved ampersands, “the continuation of a shared story,” she’d said. Tears pricked my eyes as I gently removed the folded note waiting to be retrieved.

Bravery is usually borrowed before it’s owned, it read. I still hear my father’s voice sometimes—usually when I’m about to do something reckless.

My chest tightened. I smiled like an idiot. I read it twice. Then a third time, slower, as if the words might change.

And so it began.

For the next week, we wrote about grief and chance and the strange intimacy of anonymity—about the people we’d lost and the versions of ourselves we hadn’t quite met yet.

The notes grew playful.

Him: If you could disappear for one day, where would you go?

Me: Anywhere with karaoke and bad decisions.

Him: If you’re ever in the mood for karaoke and bad decisions, I’m fairly certain I could be persuaded into a duet. —Julien

I stared at the signature longer than the words above it.

Julien.

The name settled into me as if it had always been there.

Me: I suppose it’s only fair. —Eliza

Him: My new favorite name. What’s your karaoke song?

Me: Anything dramatic enough to justify public embarrassment.

His handwriting slanted slightly right, confident but unpretentious. Mine looped too much, like I was always afraid of running out of space.

Sometimes I swore I could feel my grandmother nearby, humming approvingly. She’d loved bookstores. She’d loved secrets even more.

On the morning we met, I arrived early at the bookstore, heart thudding, and found Julien standing by our mail slot—note in hand, eyes lifted to meet mine.

We stared at each other, suspended between recognition and disbelief.

“You,” he said, smiling slowly, as if he did not doubt that I was the author of the notes.

“Yes,” I breathed.

Julien was tall and strong, and entirely too aware of the effect he had. His gaze held mine—intense, unflinching—but softened by a flicker of mischief. He looked like someone who had always known how to get what he wanted, whether by his smile or by sheer will.

He didn’t waste time pretending this was casual. He grabbed my hand and pulled me behind him.

Come on, we haven’t got much time.

Somewhere between our second song at karaoke and the walk that followed, the truth surfaced—quietly, almost casually. Both of us were leaving the following day—late trains, different directions, facts stated without drama.

It didn’t make us pull back.

If anything, it sharpened everything. Our laughter came more easily. Our stories landed deeper. I found myself watching the way Julien reached for his glass, the way he tilted his head when I spoke—as though memorizing me.

We walked until our feet ached, talking about everything and nothing. We sat by the river until the sky began to brighten with a new day, knees touching, silence comfortable and full.

We brushed shoulders, then hands. At first, it was accidental. Then it wasn’t.

Julien’s fingers lingered at the small of my back when we crossed the street. I leaned into him without thinking, my arm slipping through his. It felt public and private all at once—like a shared secret unfolding in plain sight.

We stopped for early morning crepes wrapped in paper, standing close enough that our elbows touched. When I laughed, he reached out, absentmindedly, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

The moment stretched.

“I’m glad we didn’t waste our last night,” he said softly.

“So am I,” I replied.

We stood at the entrance of my hotel, the town beginning to hum around us, the weight of leaving pressing gently but insistently against the present. Julien looked at me—really looked at me—and this time he didn’t step back.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was warm and unhurried, the kind that made the world narrow to breath and closeness and the certainty that this—this right here—would stay with me long after the trains had carried us away.

By noon, reality arrived like an unwelcome guest.

We were both leaving tonight—late trains, different directions.

I wrote my last note with shaking hands.

My grandmother believed in choosing boldly, I wrote. Extend your vacation? I’ve reserved a ticket for you on my train. I hope you’ll join me. If not, thank you for possibly the best week of my life.

I left it in our mail slot, where he would find it, and walked away before fear could change my mind.

At the station the next evening, I stood on the platform, suitcase at my side, heart in my throat.

Minutes passed.

The platform was empty except for the low hum of the train and the distant click of luggage wheels. Dusk softened the sky, painting the rails in pale gold. I clutched my ticket like a talisman, trying not to breathe too loudly.

Julien appeared around the corner, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He carried nothing but a brown leather bag slung over one shoulder and that same spark of mischief in his eyes.

“Thought I might regret leaving without saying goodbye,” he said, voice low.

I couldn’t help but laugh with relief, a little breathless. My arm slid naturally through his, effortlessly. Julien’s forehead found mine for a heartbeat, warmth grounded the swirl of everything—the letters, the laughs, the connection.

“You’re here,” I whispered.

“I am,” he murmured.

Hands brushed, then lingered. Fingers found fingers. With each step toward the train, the gap between us dissolved. When he leaned down and kissed me, it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t showy—it was exactly right, a slow gathering of every unspoken word we’d ever written.

And somehow, the platform—the rails, the low morning sun, even the faint smell of coffee from the station cafe—felt like a little piece of my grandmother’s wisdom made real: pearls do go with everything, red lipstick is always necessary, and life is far too short to behave sensibly all the time.

Until the next story,

Brooke.

Destination weddings were romantic for people who cried during the vows. For me, they were logistical puzzles with better views. I had every detail checked and rechecked to ensure I had covered all my Maid of Honor responsibilities. My color-coded wedding itinerary spreadsheet was a work of art—even if I knew, deep down, that this was not a universally shared opinion.

Florence, apparently, did not care.

Ten minutes after arriving and hurrying through the Piazza della Signoria, I glanced down at a text from the bride, my best friend, Sophie. Sophie had always been the brave one. If she was unraveling, I knew it had to be bad.

Can you hurry? My bridal hair and makeup rehearsal is a disaster! I need you!

Suddenly, I caught my toe on a cobblestone that had likely been waiting centuries for this moment.

I pitched forward, but I didn’t hit the ground.

Instead, I collided with a large, muscular chest, strong hands gripping my waist like they’d done it dozens of times before. I sucked in a shaky breath and looked up as we froze in a position that looked like he was dipping me on the floor of a ballroom.

Eyes the color of caramel danced with mischief.

“Careful,” he said, with a hint of an accent. “Florence likes to make an impression.”

I laughed, a little too loudly, mortified and strangely aware of how close we were.

“Apparently.”

He didn’t let go right away. I inhaled his scent of espresso, sandalwood, and leather. The chaos of the square seemed to fall away.

My phone buzzed again.

I stepped back quickly, cheeks warm.

“Thank you. I’m fine.”

“I’m glad,” he said, smiling. “I’d hate for the city to scare you off so soon.”

I smiled, then hurried away, already typing a reply—and only realized too late that I hadn’t asked his name.

By the time I reached the villa, I told myself it didn’t matter. Handsome Italian men were not on my carefully planned agenda.

—

The villa had unraveled by the time I arrived.

The florist was late, the chairs were mismatched, and Sophie’s updo looked more like her Great-Aunt Maude’s beehive. I rolled up my sleeves, clipboard in hand, and slipped easily into problem-solver mode. This was my role. This, I knew how to handle.

I was mid-sentence when I felt it—that odd sensation of being watched.

I slowly turned. My eyes scanned the room.

He stood beneath a stone archway like a carved Renaissance statue. Same jawline. Same eyes, but with a roguish glint. He smiled, revealing beautiful teeth and a jaw line that I couldn’t help but stare at.

“You’re the girl who almost attacked the pavement.”

I ogled. “You’re the man who caught me.”

“Luca,” he said, stepping closer. “Groom’s cousin and best man.”

“Lena,” I replied. “Bride’s best friend and maid of honor.”

Something settled between us—easy, familiar, dangerous.

From that moment on, Luca was everywhere.

He insisted on accompanying me to a bakery at dawn, claiming wedding stress required pastries. He translated when my Italian failed and laughed when powdered sugar dusted my nose. He teased me about my lists; I teased him about his refusal to rush.

Somewhere between a missing seating chart and a string quartet cancellation, Luca started handing me solutions before I finished explaining the problem. He remembered names I had forgotten, translated complaints before they turned sharp, and somehow made every small disaster feel manageable. I stopped bracing for things to go wrong when he was nearby.

At one point, he offered me a ride back to the villa on his Vespa.

“You may want to hold on tight,” he said.

I did—arms wrapped around his waist, laughter bubbling up as we zipped through narrow streets. I let my natural curls whip in the wind, uninhibited for the first time in years. The city blurred around us, warm and alive, and for the first time since arriving, I forgot to check my phone.

“You don’t like not knowing what happens next,” Luca said once, watching me reorganize place cards for the third time.

I paused. “Is it that obvious?”

He smiled—not amused, just gentle. “Only because you act like it doesn’t bother you.”

He didn’t say it like a flaw. He said it like it was something worth knowing.

At the rehearsal dinner that night, a toast was made about love and timing and showing up when it mattered. I caught Luca watching me, something soft in his expression that made my chest tighten unexpectedly. He motioned toward the terrace.

I reminded myself I had a return flight, but got up from my chair and followed him out the double doors anyway.

—

The chaos quieted. Florence stretched below us, glowing gold in the evening light. I kicked off my shoes and leaned against the stone railing, wine glass cool in my hand.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Luca said.

“What thing?”

“Looking like you might fall.”

I laughed. “I assure you, I’m steady on my feet this time.”

He stepped closer—not touching. “You sure?”

My pulse skipped.

He stepped even closer. His chest grazed mine.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

I didn’t.

When he kissed me, it wasn’t rushed. One hand rested at my waist—steady, familiar—while the other brushed my hair back. I melted into him, fingers curling into his shirt, my carefully constructed plans dissolving into the moment.

We pulled apart eventually, foreheads touching, both of us breathing harder than before.

Luca brushed his thumb along my wrist, grounding me.

“You know,” he said quietly, “in Italian, we have a phrase—è bastato.”

I tilted my head. “What does it mean?”

“It means… it was enough.” He smiled a little, like he wasn’t sure how much to say, “Enough to change something. Enough to stay.”

I swallowed.

“Florence makes people brave, Lena,” he said.

“Or reckless,” I teased.

He smiled. “Sometimes they’re the same thing,” he wrapped me in an embrace.

—

I woke early on the wedding day.

My suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed. My phone buzzed with a flight reminder. I stood at the window and watched Florence wake up, church bells echoing softly through the hills.

I realized that I hadn’t just fallen for Luca; I’d fallen for the way I felt here—lighter, braver, less afraid of not knowing exactly what came next.

—

The wedding was beautiful in the way people always hope a wedding will be. Vows were exchanged. Applause rose and fell. Golden light spilled across the terrace, and I finally realized what a golden hour truly was.

Afterward, I found Luca standing just beyond the celebration, hands in his pockets, watching the hills instead of the crowd. I stepped up close beside him.

“I don’t have a plan,” I said, because it felt like the only honest place to start.

He turned to me, smiling—calm and unpressured.

Luca looked at me, thoughtful. “You’re not afraid of staying,” he said gently, matter-of-factly. “You’re afraid of deciding.”

I exhaled, the truth settling in my chest. For once, not knowing what came next didn’t feel like a flaw. It felt like trust.

“That’s okay,” he said. I took a breath.

“What should we do?” I asked, heart pounding.

Something warm flickered in his eyes.

“Cancel your flight.”

I laughed softly, thinking of a destination wedding, uneven cobblestones, and the fate that he would be there to catch me.

Luca took my hand. Then he kissed the inside of my wrist.

And so, I stayed.

Firenze—golden and glowing—had made its impression.

È bastato.

Until the next story,

Brooke

I placed my brass key into the bright red door of my little French patisserie well before London had burst to life. The smell of yeast, butter, and sugar hit my nose before I fully entered the old brick building of my “Little Paris” shop — an area of London nicknamed for its 5th arrondissement vibes complete with French-inspired bookstores, cafes, theatres, and my charming little bakery, “French Kiss.”

I propped the door open with an iron fleur de lis door stop that I got from an antique street vendor in Montmartre while in school at Le Cordon Bleu. The cool morning air filled the space. I flipped the switch and watched my little piece of heaven come to life. The warm glow of the undercounter lights and the magical twinkling of the string lights above created an enchanting ambiance.

After getting all the ovens humming, I tied my striped Parisian apron with the same practiced knot I’d used every morning for six years. The croissant dough, folded and chilled overnight, waited for me on the marble counter like it was holding its breath. I rolled it out in long, even strokes, butter whispering beneath the pin. Somewhere between the second turn and the third, I began to sing to the Aretha Franklin record revolving on the player. Once I filled the eclairs, glazed the tarts with apricot nappage, and started the coffee. Rescue Me had me dancing and singing as I put the first round of my award-winning chocolate croissants in the oven.

“I’ve often wondered what you do to make every one of your pastries so delicious. Now I know singing is the secret,” I heard a deep, raspy voice from the front of the shop. I spun around with a gasp.

“Ezra!” I breathed. “You startled me.”

“I’m so sorry, Elodie. I’m catching an early flight to Paris and couldn’t leave without my usual,” he said, smiling that one dimpled smile, and my heart melted.

The rakish dip of that McConaughey-esque dimple—as well as the man it belonged to—has held my dreams and heart captive for the last year. Yet, much like Jane Bennet, I am far too modest for my own good, possessing a striking beauty (so my family says) that I am “too shy to ever truly wield.”

“Your flight must be pretty early,” I glanced at my Queen Elizabeth wall clock. “It’s only five. You’d think a famous novelist would know better than to schedule flights that early.” His smile deepened, which made my knees literally go weak. I propped my hands on the cool marble counter for stability. “What’s happening in Paris?”

“I am starting my France book tour there. I’ll actually be gone for two weeks, so don’t miss me too badly.” He winked and then braced his hands on either side of the narrow entrance, stretching his muscles and his shirt taut across his broad chest, causing me to lose my focus. “I know you don’t open for an hour, but could I?” he motioned to come in. I stared dumbfounded. “Pretty please?”

“Yes, of course, please,” I stammered as I got my wits about me. “Can I get you a cuppa? Your usual?” I started moving nervously to distract myself from my awkwardness.

“That’d be great. Thanks.” He walked inside and came near. The song changed to “(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman,” and the sugar-coated air between us became charged.

I reached for his favorite heavy ceramic mug. I had it made for him for his birthday last year. It reads, “All I need is French Kiss Coffee and my typewriter.”

“Black, no sugar,” I whispered, more to the espresso machine than to him. I could feel his eyes on me—not just looking, but observing, the way a novelist dissects a character he’s grown to love.

“You seem different this morning,” Ezra said, his voice dropping an octave as he moved closer to the counter. The smell of his cologne—something like cedar and expensive ink—began to mingle with the scent of my baking bread. “Less like the owner of a shop, and more like...,” he paused, searching for the word. “A woman about to make a choice.”

I froze, the silver spoon halfway to the saucer. Was I that transparent? Or was it the hours we’ve spent together over the past year—talking, sharing, dreaming, becoming friends…maybe a little more than friends, or was it just the early morning light playing tricks on my ‘Jane Bennet’ façade?

I thought of the countless mornings I had handed him his coffee with a polite smile, never letting my fingers linger against his, never daring to ask him to stay a little longer or returning his flirtatious banter. My beauty was a quiet thing, a soft melody that I kept turned down low, afraid of the feedback if I turned it up too high.

“I’m just tired, Ezra,” I lied, though the lie felt heavy on my tongue. “Early morning Aretha performances can take it out of you.” He bit back a smile, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. I couldn’t help but stare.

“I don’t think that’s it,” his voice rumbled sexily, reaching across the marble, as my eyes moved from his lips to his whiskey-colored eyes.

For the first time in a year, he didn’t wait for me to hand him the mug. He caught my wrist instead. His skin was warm, and his grip was firm yet gentle. He took a sip, not releasing my wrist.

“I’m going to Paris, and all I can think about is that I won’t see this shop—or you—for a fortnight. And a fortnight feels like a very long time to wonder if I’m the only one feeling this chemistry.”

The air in the bakery suddenly felt too thin. This was the moment. I could retreat into my modesty—give him a polite laugh—and wish him a safe flight, or I could finally wield the heart my family said was so precious.

I looked at the “rakish dip” of that dimple, now shadowed by a look of genuine vulnerability in his eyes. My shyness screamed at me to look away, but I forced my gaze to stay locked on his.

“Two weeks is too long,” I said, my voice gaining a sudden, terrifying, seductive strength. I didn’t pull my hand away. “And I’m tired of being like my pastries—kept safely behind a glass display.”

I stepped around the counter, leaving the safety of my flour-dusted fortress. The boldest thing I’d ever done was open this shop, but this—walking toward him until the buttons of his shirt pressed against my apron—felt like a greater leap.

Ezra didn’t hesitate. He let out a breath that sounded like relief, his hand moving from my wrist to the nape of my neck.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He didn’t just kiss me; he claimed the space I’d spent a year hiding in. It tasted like the coffee he hadn’t finished and the future I’d been too afraid to imagine. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t let go. He ran his thumb over the flour smudge on my cheek and then glanced at the clock.

“My flight is in three hours,” he whispered, the dimple returning with a mischievous edge. “My publisher would kill me if I missed the tour, but... I have a better idea. My assistant booked a two-bedroom suite at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée. My room has a terrace with a view of the Eiffel Tower, but it’s missing the best baker in London.”

“Come with me, Elodie. Let the shop sleep for two weeks. Show me the Paris you fell in love with while in culinary school. I want to see the world through your eyes.”

I looked at my “Little Paris” around me, then back at the man who was offering me the real thing. For once, Jane Bennet was nowhere to be found.

Ezra didn’t just offer me a trip to France; he offered me a version of myself I was finally brave enough to meet, and I was excited to become acquainted.

Vive la vie!

Until the next story,

Brooke