Headlights cut through the dusky street and the sleek, dark Range Rover glides to a stop at the curb. The driver’s side door opens, and Denton gets out. He’s wearing dark trousers and a charcoal gray sweater that hugs his powerful shoulders, making him look devastatingly handsome. My breath catches.
As I walk out to meet him, he rounds the front of the SUV. A slow, genuine smile touches his lips – the kind that still feels rare and precious, like a perfectly shaped snowflake.
It transforms the usual stern lines of his face, softening the angles, warming those gray eyes of his. The butterflies in my stomach are now in full flight.
“Hey,” he says. His eyes sweep over me, appreciative and intense. “You look… incredible.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr. Blake.”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. The touch is light, deliberate, sending a jolt of awareness through me. “Ready?”
Ready? To step into unknown territory with him? To see where this fragile thing between us leads? My stomach flips again, but it’s not just nerves this time. It’s anticipation and hope.
“Absolutely.”
He opens the passenger door for me, his hand resting briefly on the small of my back as I slide in. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels possessive.
The interior is warm, smelling faintly of leather. He climbs in beside me, the space suddenly feeling very small.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he pulls away from the curb, navigating the snowy streets with familiar ease.
“Place called Luca’s,” he says, glancing over. “Quiet. Good pasta. They know me, so we shouldn’t get bothered.” He pauses, his hand resting on the gearshift. “Is that okay?”
“Perfect,” I breathe, meaning it. “Quiet sounds amazing.”
Luca’s is tucked away on a side street, its warm, golden light spilling onto the snowy sidewalk. Inside, it’s all low lighting, exposed brick, and the rich, comforting aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and baking bread. Soft music plays in the background.
Denton gives a brief nod to the maître d’, who leads us to a secluded booth in the back corner, away from the handful of other diners.
We settle in, the leather seat soft beneath me. Denton shrugs out of his coat. My fingers itch to trace the lines of his broad chest again. Instead, I try to focus on the menu.
“What looks good?” he asks.
You.I clear my throat, forcing my eyes to focus on the laminated page. “Everything. Maybe the mushroom ravioli?”
He nods. “Solid choice. I’m going for the osso buco.” He sets his menu down, his gaze steady on me. “How’s the bakery?”
I appreciate him asking. “Wet,” I admit with a wry smile. “But drying. Charlie brought the huge fans that sound like jet engines, and they’re working. The floor’s a lot better but the drywall needs patching… but we’ll get there. Thank you so much again for your help. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Anytime. Seriously, Holly. Whatever you need.” He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine where it rests beside my water glass. “Seeing you fight for that place… it was…” He searches for the word, his thumb tracing idle circles on the back of my hand. “Inspiring.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. Coming from him, the disciplined athlete who commands the ice, it feels like high praise. “It’s home,” I say simply, turning my hand under his to lace our fingers together.
He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. He gets it. The deep-rooted need for a place to belong, to create.
Our food arrives – steaming plates of fragrant pasta and tender braised meat – breaking the moment but not the connection.
We talk easily as we eat – about Tabby’s latest obsession with building elaborate snow forts (apparently Denton is now an expert snow-brick architect), about Charlie’s disastrous attempt at making croissants (“They resembled hockey pucks,” I confide, making him laugh), about the ridiculous holiday sweater one of his teammates wore to practice (“It had light-up reindeer antlers. And a sound chip.”). The conversation flows, punctuated by shared smiles and the comfortable silence that settles between people who don’t need to fill every space with noise.
He asks about my favorite Christmas traditions growing up. I tell him about my grandmother’s legendary gingerbread house competitions, the craziness of decorating with my three older brothers, the way my dad always pretended to be surprised by his gift of socks every year.
He listens, really listens, a small smile playing on his lips. He shares a little about Christmases with Sarah – quieter affairs, focused on family, the way she’d make Tabby’s eyes light up with the simplest things.
It’s not heavy. It’s just… part of his story. Shared naturally, without the weight of the past pressing down. Healing for him, I realize.
By the time the waiter clears our plates and brings tiny cups of rich, dark espresso, the nervous butterflies are long gone. Replaced by a sense of rightness. This isn’t just a date. It’s a solid beginning.
He pays the check, his hand returning to mine as we stand to leave. Outside, the cold air is a shock after the restaurant’s warmth, but his hand is warm around mine. He walks me back to the SUV, opens my door. As I slide in, he leans in, his face close to mine in the dim interior light.
