Peering over the top of it, I saw the PLEASE? disappear, and in its place was a sign with a time and place on it. Tomorrow, 8AM, Nancy’s.
I wrote OK on the back of my paper and turned it over.
This was ridiculous.
But really cute.
When I looked over again, he had drawn a thumbs up, but it looked less like a thumb and more like a different appendage.
I slammed my hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh that burst out of me. The man might’ve been a hotshot lawyer, but he was a terrible artist. I shook my head and pulled the curtains shut before I could get caught up in any more ridiculous window messaging.
But as I got ready for bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened in that storage room. The way Declan had looked at me, the things he’d said about wanting something real. The way his hands had felt when he touched my face, like I was something precious instead of someone who’d had her life dismantled by a lying ex-boyfriend.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe that someone like Declan Hayes—successful, gorgeous, apparently capable of making me forget my own name with a single kiss—could actually be interested in more than a holiday fling with the hometown failure.
But wanting something and trusting it were two very different things.
I’d thought Derek wanted something real too. I’d thought his sweet words and grand gestures meant he saw a future with me. Right up until I discovered he’d been systematically cleaning out our joint accounts while screwing his assistant and planning his exit strategy.
The coffee invitation was sweet. The window signs were adorable in a way that made my chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to hope. But Derek had been sweet, too, in the beginning. Charming and attentive and full of promises about the life we’d build together.
With a sigh, I crawled into my narrow single bed and sighed. One coffee wouldn’t hurt. Not if I went in with low expectations. Maybe he wants to have a fling. Maybe I could, too.
I spent approximately forty-seven minutes the next morning choosing an outfit that was casual but not too casual. The resultwas a green sweater and jeans. That seemed to be uniform at the moment.
Declan was already waiting at Nancy’s when I arrived, sitting at a corner table with enough pastries to feed a small army and two large cups of coffee that were steaming invitingly in the December morning air.
“Good morning,” he said, standing when he saw me approach, and there was something in his smile—warm and slightly possessive—that made my stomach do a little flip of awareness.
“Morning,” I said, trying to sound casual despite the fact that seeing him again after yesterday’s storage room revelations was making me feel like a teenager again. “Looks like you’ve prepared for a significant planning session.”
“I may have gotten carried away at the pastry case,” Declan admitted, gesturing to the impressive spread he’d assembled. “But I figured after yesterday’s intensive collaboration, we might need some extra fuel for today’s coordination efforts.”
The euphemism was delivered with just enough emphasis to make it clear he was referencing our storage room confession rather than any actual festival planning, and I couldn’t help laughing at his determination to maintain professional language even when discussing our decidedly unprofessional romantic developments.
“Very thoughtful,” I said, sliding into the chair across from him and surveying the pastry selection with genuine appreciation. “Though this seems like enough food for six people.”
“I wasn’t sure what you preferred,” Declan said, and there was something slightly uncertain in his voice that suggested he’d put actual thought into this breakfast selection. “So, I got a variety.”
The variety in question included chocolate croissants, blueberry scones, cinnamon rolls that were still warm from the oven, and what appeared to be some kind of fruit Danish that looked absolutely decadent. It was the kind of indulgent breakfast spread that would have sent most of my friends, ex-friends, into complicated discussions about calories and gym time, but looking at it just made me happy.
“Declan, this is perfect,” I said, reaching for one of the chocolate croissants without hesitation. “I love that you didn’t assume I’d want the smallest, least interesting option.”
“Why would I assume that?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.
“Because most people assume that about...” I gestured vaguely at myself, then realized I was about to launch into a discussion of societal expectations about women’s eating habits that was definitely too heavy for morning coffee. “Never mind. Thank you for the pastries.”
But Declan was looking at me with the kind of focused attention that suggested he wasn’t going to let my half-finished comment slide.
“Most people assume what about you?” he asked gently.
I took a bite of a chocolate croissant to buy myself time, because explaining the complexities of being a curvy woman in a world that constantly policed women’s food choices seemed like a lot for a morning coffee date.
“Just... you know how it is,” I said finally. “People make assumptions about what women should or shouldn’t eat based on how they look. It’s refreshing to sit down to breakfast with someone who doesn’t immediately start talking about carbs or calories or whether I ‘should’ be eating a chocolate croissant at nine in the morning.”
Declan was quiet for a moment, and when I looked up from my pastry, he was watching me with an expression that wasequal parts understanding and something that looked like anger on my behalf.
“Holly,” he said carefully, “has someone actually said something to you about what you should or shouldn’t eat?”
