His jaw tightened. If he couldn’t, at least he would know. At least he would have tried.
He looked at the brownies again. Then, almost reverently, he picked one up and took a bite.
The chocolate melted on his tongue, rich and perfect.
Tomorrow,he thought.I’ll tell her tomorrow.
Sleep came in fragments, broken by dreams that left him tangled in sweat-damp sheets. Sara’s laugh. Sara’s scent. Sara’s hands on his chest, her breath warm against his neck as she whispered words he couldn’t quite make out. The dreams weren’t explicitly sexual—not quite—but they were intimate in a way that felt almost worse. Her head on his shoulder while they watched television. Her fingers threading through the fur between his ears. The casual, comfortable weight of her presence beside him.
He wanted that. God help him, he wanted that almost as much as he wanted her body.
By the time dawn broke, he had given up on sleep entirely. He took a cold shower because his body had apparently decided that morning arousal was now a permanent fixture of his existence and dressed in jeans and a gray Henley that he’d been told was “flattering” by Nina, who had opinions about his wardrobe that he hadn’t asked for.
The clock read 6:47 AM. Sara usually left for school around 7:30.
He made coffee and drank it standing at the window, watching her cottage come alive. Lights flicked on in sequence—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. He caught glimpses of movement behind the curtains, and his imagination filled in the gaps in ways that immediately overcame the effects of his cold shower.
Get a grip, Holloway.
At 7:15, he left his house.
The morning air was crisp, but it carries the first hints of spring—new grass, wet earth, the distant sweetness of early blooming flowers. His nose twitched involuntarily, cataloging each scent, searching for the one that made everything else fade to background noise.
Vanilla. Sugar. Warmth.
Sara.
She emerged from her cottage just as he reached the edge of her property, wrapped in a soft green cardigan that made her eyes look impossibly bright. Her hair was pulled back in one of those messy buns she favored, a few chestnut strands escaping to frame her face.
She stopped short when she saw him, her eyebrows rising.
“Ben?”
“Morning.”
“It’s… early.” She glanced at her watch, then back at him. “You’re never up this early.”
“I own a restaurant. I’m always up this early.”
“All right. You’re neverherethis early.” Her lips twitched, a smile threatening to break through her confusion. “Did you need something?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly and absurdly nervous. He’d performed in front of thousands of people. He’d stared down drunk werewolves and angry trolls and that one time, an actual dragon who’d taken offense at the wine selection. None of that had made his palms sweat like this.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
Her expression shifted, the humor fading into something more careful. More hopeful. “And?”
“And…” He took a breath. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to the Festival with you. I’ll even help with the planning.”
The smile that broke across her face was like sunrise—sudden, brilliant, impossible to look away from. Her whole body seemed to lift with it, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her cheeks flushing pink.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not just saying that because you felt guilty about the brownies?”
“The brownies were excellent. I ate three of them.” He stepped closer, drawn by the warmth radiating from her despite the morning chill. “But no. This isn’t about guilt.”
