The drive to Rosewood Inn was filled with comfortable conversation – Sam telling me about a funny incident at the bar where someone had tried to pay their tab with a chicken (“A live chicken, Chloe, I’m not even kidding”), me describing Mrs. Patterson’s reaction to the birthday cake (“She told Sarah that if you ever get tired of running a bar, you could be a party planner”).
Sam seemed more relaxed now, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across to hold mine. This was the Sam I knew – warm, present, excited about our evening together. Whatever proposal nerves he’d had earlier seemed to have settled.
Rosewood Inn sat at the end of a tree-lined street, its Victorian architecture and warm lighting making it the most romantic restaurant in Willowbrook. Sam had brought me here for our first official date two years ago, and he’d been so nervous he’d called me by the wrong name when ordering. The waitress, a matronly lady called Cynthia, had smiled kindly and said, ‘Honey, that’s my name. What’s the name of this beautiful woman who’s got you so tongue-tied?’ We’d all laughed, Sam had finally relaxed, and the rest of the evening had been perfect.
Tonight felt like a perfect circle, coming back to where it all began to take the next step forward.
The hostess, a young woman I recognized from the coffee shop, beamed at us as we approached.
“Mr. Mitchell, Dr. Parker! Right this way. We have your usual table ready.”
Our usual table. The corner booth with the window overlooking the garden, where Sam had fumbled through asking me to be his girlfriend. I slid into my side of the booth, watching Sam settle across from me, his eyes soft with affection as he reached for my hand across the table.
“I still can’t believe you gave me a second chance after that first date,” he said, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “I was such a nervous wreck.”
“You were adorable,” I said, squeezing his fingers. “Still are when you get nervous.”
His smile was warm and genuine, though I could see the flutter of nerves in the way he shifted slightly in his seat.
His nervousness was contagious. I could feel my own pulse quickening, my anticipation building with every passing second. “Are you okay?” I asked, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You seem… on edge.”
“Just want everything to be perfect,” he said, and there was that word again.
The way he said it, with such complete certainty, made my heart race. This was it. This was the moment we’d been building toward.
Our server appeared with menus and the wine list, her smile knowing and warm. “The usual?” she asked. “Pinot grigio and the herb-crusted salmon?”
“That sounds perfect,” I said, watching Sam nod in agreement. His hand was still holding mine across the table, his expression content despite the hint of anticipation in his eyes.
Then his phone buzzed against the table.
Sam glanced down and muttered a curse under his breath. “Kate knows not to contact me tonight unless it’s a catastrophic emergency.”
I laughed. “Well, you’d better check it then. Maybe the bar’s on fire.”
He picked up his phone, and I watched his expression shift from mild annoyance to confusion, then to something that looked like shock. The color drained from his face as he read, his jaw clenching tight.
“Sam?” My smile faded. “What’s wrong? Please tell me the bar isn’t actually on fire.”
“What? No. No, nothing like that.” He put the phone face down on the table with shaking hands, but I could see the tension that had suddenly appeared in his shoulders, the way his hand had released mine. “Sorry. Where were we?”
“The server was asking about wine.”
“Right. Yes. The Pinot Grigio is fine.” His voice had changed – tight, distracted, completely different from the warm tone he’d been using just moments before.
Something was wrong. The Sam who’d been holding my hand and calling me “everything” had vanished the moment that message came through. In his place sat someone I barely recognized – pale, tense, his jaw clenched tight.
Around us, Rosewood Inn buzzed with its usual evening energy. I recognized several couples from town – the Petersons celebrating something, the Millers on their regular date night, a young couple at the bar who were clearly newly engaged based on the way the woman kept staring at her left hand.
What could have happened in a single text message to shake him this badly?
“Do you remember Cynthia?” I asked, trying to bring back the warmth we’d had just moments before. “You were so nervousyou mixed up our names and called me Cynthia the first time we came here.”
Sam’s attempt at a laugh sounded forced. “I was terrified you’d ghost me after that.”
“I’m still here,” I said softly, reaching for his hand again. “Not going anywhere.”
But he didn’t take my hand. Instead, he reached for his water glass, his movements jerky and uncomfortable, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
