And then—I take her hand again.
Lead her away from the crowd.
We move towards the edge of the park across the street, where things get quieter.
There’s a picnic table waiting.
A basket sitting right on top.
Her name in bold pink on a small card where a bouquet of wildflowers sits in a vase.
She stops short.
“What’s this?” she asks.
I help her sit, pulling the bench out for her like she’s something delicate. Something precious.
Because she is.
“This,” I say, letting a slow smile spread across my face, “is dinner.”
She blinks at me.
“Wait—you didn’t?—”
“You didn’t think I was gonna feed you corn dogs and cotton candy and call it a date, did you?”
I clutch my chest like she’s personally offended me.
She laughs.
Gods, I love that sound.
Then I open the basket.
Start pulling things out.
Small containers. Neatly packed.
Chilled lobster salad.
Shrimp cocktail.
Slices of ripe tomato drizzled with extra virgin oil and fresh herbs.
Fresh focaccia.
And for dessert—fresh berries and whipped cream.
She just stares.
“Where did you get this?” she asks, eyes wide.
I glance up at her.
Grin.
“Get?” I echo. “I made it, Hadley.”
