The next day, I’m closing up my shop for the night when Dean walks in.
I’ve been touching my lips all day, hardly believing he’d kissed me.
“What brings you over here?” I smile at him as I cross the room to him. My arms are aching for his touch.
Dean steps closer—not crowding, not assuming—just close enough that to feel the warmth of him.
“Jo,” he says softly, “about yesterday…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss.”
“Me either.”
He lets out a breath, eyes searching mine. “May I?”
My heart gives a ridiculous flutter. “Yes.”
He leans in and presses a gentle, careful kiss to my lips.
It’s brief—barely more than a brush—but it sends warmth blooming through my chest. When he pulls back, I’m smiling without meaning to.
“That’s all I’m going to do,” he says, a little breathless but steady. “Because if I keep going, I’m going to forget every professional boundary I just promised myself I’d keep.”
I laugh—quiet, delighted, embarrassingly giddy. “Probably wise.”
He takes my hands, holding them between us like they’re something important. “Jo… I want to do this right. Dinner. Talking. Real dating. Not sneaking kisses while you’re supposed to be planning a festival.”
My throat tightens. “You want to date me? Publicly?”
“If you’ll have me.” His smile is small and earnest. “I don’t do anything halfway.”
Warmth spreads through me—hopeful, terrifying, wonderful. “I’d like that. A lot.”
He squeezes my hands once, gently. “Friday night. Seven. And Jo? Wear something that makes you feel beautiful.”
“I feel beautiful right now.”
His expression softens—completely undone for a moment—before he steps back. “Then wear anything.”
“I know I said I wasn’t going to do this...”
And then I’m back in his arms, with his lips on mine. I sigh against his mouth.
The door bursts open, the chimes jangling frantically.
Asher and Mads tumble in like a badly choreographed comedy routine, clearly expecting to find us working on festival plans.
Dean and I spring apart.
“Oh!” Mads stops short, her eyes going comically wide. “We were just?—”
“Checking on things,” Asher finishes, his gaze bouncing between us with growing delight. “But it looks like you’re?—”
“Busy,” they say in unison.
Dean clears his throat. Adjusts his collar. Somehow manages to look both authoritative and utterly caught. “We were reviewing the festival plans.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Mads stage-whispers to Asher.
“Mom has some lipstick—” Asher gestures vaguely at his own mouth. “Just, you know. As a friend. I’m telling you as a friend.”
