I live in the South, so I’m forced to care about my image. But I rarely get this dressed up, and as I continue to take in my reflection, I wonder if I should find reasons to dress like this more often.
Being Noah’s just might be the answer to that.
I shake the thought, not wanting to start the date off with any more nerves and doubts than necessary. No. I’m going out tonight with an open heart and an open mind and a—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My heart jumps right out of my chest as I wobble on my heels, careening backward off my bedroom steps. I grab the sides of the small doorway and steady myself as the knocks repeat three more times.
I check the time as I click down the steps. He’s five minutes early.
Though I don’t want to, I can’t help but compare him to my last real relationship—that I fully remember anyway. Lane was always at least fifteen minutes late. Most of the time longer than that.
Readying myself and patting any flyaways down—not that they exist, thanks to the excessive amount of hairspray Sam used—I breathe in. Out.
And pull the handle of the door, leaving Noah to open it as I wait for my moment. You know the one. Where the man first sees the woman dressed up nicely for him. I tried for Lane, but he never showed any indication that he cared if I put on sweatpants or a sundress for him.
Noah, however, does not disappoint.
He’s standing there at the bottom of the steps with yet another bouquet of flowers—this time orange and pink wildflowers—and wearing fitted black dress pants, a light orange collared button up tucked into his waist, and an expression that has me wanting to twirl for him.
So I do.
And when I make it back around, his jaw is still hanging open, eyes bugging out of his head, and he’s still yet to find words.
“Hi,” I whisper, averting my gaze and clutching my little white purse. I don’t know which is making me melt more: howrecklessly hot he looks or how he takes every inch of me in before clearing his throat and rubbing his hand down the bottom half of his face.
But his voice is rough and breathless when he finally speaks. “Esme Lorraine, you might just be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He holds out his hand to me, and when I slip my fingers through his, my world clicks right into place. Noah guides me down the steps, and when my heels are digging into the grass and I’m pressed against him, he kisses my cheek. And I thought the forehead kiss was the sweetest thing…
“For you, my lady.” Noah hands me the flowers, and I take them, my fingers brushing against his. Those sparkling hazel eyes are dancing as his gaze bounces from my eyes to my lips. But instead of kissing me, he whispers, “Ready to go?”
I nod, not trusting myself with words. He chuckles and starts leading us across the yard, but my heels keep digging into the dirt. “I’m sorry,” I rush out, yanking my heel from the ground. “I shouldn’t have worn these things.”
“On the contrary,” Noah says, a lilt in his voice. He drops my hand, and before I realize what’s happening, he swoops me into his arms, bridal style. The widest grin overtakes his face. “Now I’ve got a good reason to sweep you off your feet, sweetheart.”
A girlish giggle escapes my lips as I wrap my arms around his neck. He kisses my forehead and stares into my eyes, a look of love that has my stomach tumbling. The words are on my tongue,I love you,but I bite down. The fear that this will all fade away one day is a weight on my chest, and until I can lift it off, I have no business telling this man I think I’ve chosen to love him forever.
Enjoy the date, Esme. Just enjoy the date and feel things out.
I sway to the rhythm of his gait, my fingers playing with the edges of his hair, until we stop in front of his truck. He sets me down on the gravel, opens the door for me, and even helps me in.Through it all, my brain is battling betweenthis is realandthis is not real.
This is princess treatment, and while many say these are basic expectations for a woman to hold for a man, I’ve never been cared for this way by any man besides my dad when he took me out to show me how a man should treat me. Didn’t work, of course, because I then ended up clinging to a man who played with my mind and emotions, making me believe I wasn’t worthy of this.Or that it was even real.
Noah gently closes the door before walking around and hopping into the driver’s side. The truck roars to life, and in the evening summer sun, another memory flashes across my vision. This one is of us swimming underneath a setting sun, kissing and touching and whispering I love yous.
It’s the first time I remember telling him that. Feeling love for him.
I’m breathless when I come out of the memory, and Noah is staring at me with concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Centering myself and focusing on the present, I give him a soft smile. “Another memory resurfaced.”
“Tell me.” Noah throws the truck in drive, and as we roll over the gravel and to the stop sign at the end of the driveway, I tell him about the memory.
Everything except the I love yous.
I hold that in, and I ponder it, and I sit with it all the way into Jackson, which is where he told me we were headed after I changed the subject off my memory. I guess Sam was right to dress me up more than usual.
An hour later, thanks to potholes, roadwork, and traffic, Noah drives into the parking lot of Inkwell’s, a small independent bookstore Sam and I like to frequent. But it’s after six, and they’re closed.
