Then there was the Bolivian guy. Six months of dating—exciting at first because we were so different, exhausting by the end because those differences ran deeper than I’d realized. Our values never quite aligned. What mattered deeply to me barely registered to him, and that gap only widened over time.
Finally, there was the pastor’s son from my old church. He ended things quickly, and honestly, I felt relieved. There was no spark. That’s when I learned something important: shared faith alone isn’t enough. There has to be chemistry, too. Something alive.
I need a spark. Similar values. A man who is driven.
And that clarity is exactly why Nate feels so dangerous.
“I know him,” Dad says, pulling me back to the present. “He’s one of the good ones.”
He isn’t a man of many words. But when he does speak like that, it means something.
I blow out a slow breath, pondering for what feels like a full minute.
“Well… if you’re saying that, maybe there is something to this. Maybe God is in it.”
“You still have two weeks, Lizzie,” he reminds me. “You don’t have to make your decision this morning. But you can at least call him and thank him for the breakfast basket.”
He’s right.
But I still can’t quite believe that my dad—my fiercely protective, suspicious-of-all-men father—is willing to bet on someone. For him to bet on anybody…? To believe so wholeheartedly in someone that he’s willing to bet on that person’s character?
That’s big stuff.
And honestly? Part of me wouldn’t have wanted to call first anyway. I’ve always liked the idea of being pursued. Mom used to say men like to chase and not be chased, that calling first could make things lose their spark. That idea lodged itself somewhere deep in my mind and never quite left.
But Nate has already made his intentions clear.
And after this beautiful start to my morning… how could I not call to thank him?
I head back inside to the kitchen, where the corded phone hangs on the wall. His card is sitting right next to it.
I roll my eyes. That was definitely my mother’s doing. She must have found it when I was in the bathroom last night taking off my makeup.
I dial the number.
Two rings.
“Nate’s house, Camila speaking.”
“Your favorite brunette calling,” I reply.
She laughs loudly, warmly, the kind of laugh that fills a room even through a phone line. I can almost picture her throwing her head back dramatically.
“Well, well, well. I knew I could bet on you.”
What is with everyone betting on people today?
“I just wanted to thank Nate for the beautiful breakfast basket he sent over this morning. Is he around?”
I don’t know why I’m nervous to talk to him. Why am I nervous?
“Sugar, he’s out at the moment,” she says. “But he told me if Lizzie calls, to take your number so he can call you as soon as he gets back.”
“That’s fine. Do you have paper and pen ready?”
I give her my phone number, reciting it carefully.
“I know he’ll call as soon as he gets in,” she adds. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
