“I mean, it’s not like I’m set on staying in Belgium forever,” I admit. “I don’t know what the future holds. I just love Europe so much. I love that I have this opportunity right now. But I want to stay present. Let’s just see how this date goes.”
“And whether it’ll rewrite your entire brain chemistry and you’ll stay here!” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.
I laugh. “Or that.”
I finish getting ready and swipe on the red lipstick, completing the look.
The doorbell rings just as Pimenta squawks loudly, “Lizzie Bell, the doorbell!”
“How do you even know that?!” I shout back, amazed.
I open the front door and there he is.
Nate stands on the porch in a linen co-ord and brown boat shoes, looking effortlessly stylish and perfectly suited to the sunny afternoon.
“Hi, Lizzie,” he says, stepping forward and greeting me with the Brazilian kiss on the cheek.
But somehow, the simple greeting feels charged, like there’s an invisible current humming just beneath the surface.
“Hi, Nate,” I reply, my voice coming out slightly breathier than intended.
“Should we go?” he asks, gesturing toward his car.
“I’m ready,” I say, closing the door behind me.
“You look beautiful,” he adds as we walk down the steps.
I’m not usually a blusher, but I definitely feel warmth rise to my cheeks.
“Thank you,” I manage.
He opens the car door for me, and I think—dangerously—that I could get used to this level of gentlemanly treatment very quickly.
I slide into the seat, and he circles around to the driver’s side. When he reverses, one hand on the back of my seat, I stare out the window very intently, trying not to swoon over something as ridiculous as a man backing out of a driveway. What is it about that that is so attractive?
It has been two minutes. Two minutes, Lizzie. Get a grip.
What is it about him that feels like it could rewrite my brain chemistry?
“So, where are we off to?” I ask as we pull onto the road.
“It’s a surprise,” he says with a grin.
“Do you like surprises?” I ask him.
He laughs. “Honestly? No. I like knowing things.”
“I’m definitely more spontaneous,” I admit. “But I don’t know if I have enough patience for surprises.” I chuckle.
“Well, don’t worry,” he says, glancing over at me. “You’ll find out in roughly forty-five minutes.”
Inside, I feel giddy. I hate surprises and love them at the same time. I hate waiting, but I love being thought of enough for someone to plan something intentionally.
Forty-five minutes later, we pull intoPorto de Galinhas. A Brazilian town named ‘Chicken Port’.
White sand stretches along the coastline, mangroves and palm trees swaying gently in the distance. The village feels livelier than I remember, more polished, more intentionally charming.
Nate pulls into the parking lot.
