I snort, but I’m already reaching for the jeans. “Boots or sneakers?”
“The ankle boots with the low heel,” they say in unison, then exchange a look through their respective screens.
“We’ve trained her well,” Serena says solemnly.
“She’s ready to leave the nest,” Layla agrees.
“I hate you both.”
“You love us. Now go get ready—and we expect a full debrief tomorrow. Full. Debrief.” Serena waggles her wooden spoon at the camera. “Have fun, babe. He’s lucky to have you.”
The call ends, and I’m left staring at my reflection with a stupid grin on my face.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed and approved—jeans, sweater, boots, just like the council decreed. I leave my hair down, the natural curls I stopped fighting once I realized Logan likes them better than the flat-ironed Swedish version. Minimal makeup. Just enough to feel put-together without looking like I’m trying too hard.
At exactly four o’clock, there’s a knock on my door.
I open it to find Logan standing there in jeans and a charcoal sweater I’ve never seen before—something that actually fits him properly, that makes his shoulders look broader and his eyes look bluer behind his glasses. He’s holding a small bouquet of flowers. Not roses—something wilder, more interesting. Purple and white blooms I don’t recognize.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice does that soft thing it only does when we’re alone.
“Hi yourself.” I take the flowers, bringing them to my nose. They smell incredible—sweet and slightly spicy. “These are beautiful. What are they?”
“Freesia and stock. The woman at the flower shop said they symbolize trust and lasting beauty.” His ears go pink. “I may have spent an embarrassing amount of time researching floral symbolism before I went. And then cross-referenced her recommendations.”
Of course he did. Of course Logan Whitman peer-reviewed a florist.
“They’re perfect,” I say, and mean it. “Let me put them in water, and then you can tell me where we’re going.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.” He follows me into the kitchen, watching as I find a vase and set it on the counter. “Probably. I hope.” He picks up the vase and fills it with water while I arrange the stems.
“Probably. You hope?”
“Yes. I think there’s a high probability of you enjoying it, but there’s always a margin of error when dealing with subjective experiences?—”
“Logan.”
“Yes?”
“Take a breath. I’m sure it’s going to be great.”
He does take a breath, visibly collecting himself. “Right. Yes. OK.”
With the flowers in water, I set the vase on my counter where I’ll see it every time I walk into the kitchen, then grab my jacket. “Lead the way, Dr. Whitman.”
We drive north, away from downtown, the late afternoon light painting everything gold. Logan keeps glancing at me like he’s checking to make sure I’m still there, still real. I pretend not to notice, but secretly I love it. All that time spent wondering if he felt the same way I did, and now I get to see it written all over his face.
“Can I have a hint?” I ask as we merge onto Lake Shore Drive.
“You’ll see in about fifteen minutes.”
“One hint. Just one.”
He considers this. “It involves stars.”
