At the garage, Jonah takes one look at me and grins. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"How was the weekend? Did you two—"
"None of your business," I say, but I can't keep the smile off my face.
"Oh my God, you're smiling. Silas Northwood is actually smiling. She must be magic."
"She is," I say simply. "And I'm taking her to dinner tonight. And tomorrow night. And every night after that if she'll have me."
Jonah's grin widens. "Told you that auction was a good idea."
"You ambushed me and forged my signature."
"Best decision I ever made for you. You're welcome."
I throw a wrench at him, but I'm still smiling.
The day drags endlessly. I check my phone too often, reading and rereading the texts Iris sends throughout the day.
"Morning! My students want to know why I'm smiling so much. I told them it's because spring is coming. (Total lie.)"
I text back:"Tell them it's because a very handsome man is taking you to dinner tonight. (Truth.)"
Her response comes immediately:"Very handsome, huh? Someone thinks highly of himself."
"Just stating facts, sunshine."
Around noon, she sends me a photo, a drawing one of her students made. It's two stick figures holding hands under a heart."Miss Whitfield and her boyfriend,"the caption reads in wobbly kid handwriting.
My chest tightens. I save the photo immediately.
"Tell them they're a talented artist,"I text back.
"Already did. Fair warning: you're now famous among the first-grade set. Prepare for lots of questions if you ever visit my classroom."
"I'll be there whenever you want me."
"Careful. I might hold you to that."
"I'm counting on it."
At five o'clock, I close the garage early and head back to Jonah's place to shower and change. I stand in front of the mirror forway too long, debating shirts, running my hand through my hair, second-guessing everything.
"You look fine," Jonah calls from the living room. "Better than fine. She's already crazy about you. Stop overthinking."
He's right. But this is the first real date. The first time we're stepping out in public as... whatever we are. I want it to be perfect.
At five-thirty, I'm at her door. She answers in a dark blue dress that makes her eyes luminous, her hair loose around her shoulders, and I forget how to breathe.
"You're early," she says, but she's smiling.
"Couldn't wait. You look... Jesus, Iris. You're stunning."
She blushes, and I want to make her do that again and again.
"You clean up pretty well yourself," she says, her eyes traveling over me appreciatively.
