Friday night feels impossibly far away.
But for the first time in seven years, I’m not afraid of what comes next.
I’m excited.
Friday evening arrives before I’m emotionally prepared for it.
I’ve changed my outfit three times, curled my hair twice, and reapplied my lip gloss four times. At this point, if Dean cancels, I will simply walk into the ocean and begin a new life as a disappointed mermaid.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze.
Then I trip over my own rug.
Then I open the door like a woman who absolutely has her life together.
Dean stands on my porch in a navy button-down, looking like he’s trying very hard not to tug at the collar. He’s holding flowers—actual flowers—and Rex sits at his heel wearing a tiny red bowtie.
“You brought…your dog?” I ask.
Dean sighs. “He refused to let me leave the house. I tried logic. I tried bribery. He sat on my shoes.”
Rex wags proudly.
I laugh. “Well, he looks very handsome.”
Dean looks at me then—really looks—and something softens in his expression. “So do you.”
The compliment hits me somewhere dangerously close to my heart.
We walk to the restaurant, The Salty Pearl, which may have been a mistake since Amber runs the place, but it’s the best seafood in town. All locally caught fish.
As soon as we’re seated, Amber finds like like a bloodhound. “Dean, if you have any plans to propose tonight, let me know. We’ll bring out free cake to celebrate.”
“Amber… It’s our first date,” I remind her.
“Oh, right. But you never know.” She winks at me, and I roll my eyes. I’ve been spending too much time with Caroline at the coffee shop. That girl has mastered the eye roll.
Dean’s stayed quiet this entire time, but his eyes are dancing, like he’s amused.
I get the fresh caught shrimp, and he orders the blackened Red Drum. When our food comes, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “While it’s a bit soon for a proposal, I’m very happy to be here with you tonight. I know your friends are eager to see you settled and blissful, but I want to take it slowly with you. Get to know you. I want to learn your habits and what your favorite ice cream is.”
“It’s cookie dough,” I supply.
“Mine too,” he admits. “I have some in my freezer right now.”
“So do I.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and my belly does that flip flop thing it used to do when my crush in high school would acknowledge my presence, which wasn’t often.
I lift my wine glass. “To many nights eating cookie dough ice cream together.”
He meets my glass with his. “Cheers to that.”
EIGHT
DEAN
