He steps back to offer his hand, and with his fingertips grazing mine, says, “Somewhere we’ve never been before but you’ve asked about.”
We climb into his truck. He buckles me in and leans forward to press a soft kiss to my temple, whispering, “Precious cargo.”
I flush, his warmth lingering on my skin like a promise.
The drive is longer than I expected, winding through unfamiliar hills until we pull up in front of a converted vineyard-turned-restaurant calledForage & Flame. The sign is carved into driftwood and backlit with flickering lanterns. Vines drape dramatically over trellises, and a server in a floor-length linen apron waits with what appears to be a bell jar of herbs and a vintage pocket watch.
Sam gets out first and opens my door like a gentleman. I slide past him, the brush of his hand at my waist making my breath catch. He murmurs something low, either a curse or a prayer, and I don’t ask which.
Inside, everything smells faintly of burnt thyme and woodsmoke. The space is moody, atmospheric, full of mismatched candleholders and tiny terrariums suspended from the ceiling. Our table? A refurbished apothecary cabinet set with antique cutlery and napkins folded into origami foxes.
We sit down and a man in suspenders appears moments later, setting down a teacup of something steaming and greenish.
“Tonight’s amuse-bouche is a chilled pea foam with lemon ash and a duck-fat cracker, followed by a four-part experiential tasting themed aroundseasonal awakening,” he says solemnly. “Your first course will be a warm oyster broth scented with pine, served in a hollowed-out geode.”
Sam reaches under the table, fingers barely grazingmine. When I glance at him, he’s trying to keep a straight face, eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.
I bite my lip, leaning slightly toward him when the waiter leaves. “Should we be worried they’re going to bring us moss to eat?”
He shrugs, playful. “Better let me taste it first, in case it’s poisonous.”
The tension between us bubbles—part giddy, part charged. Sam rests his palm flat on the table, and when I place mine over it, his thumb strokes my wrist slowly, deliberately.
“They’re really going all in here,” I murmur. “I thought you never wanted to go to a restaurant where you couldn’t pick the food for yourself?”
“I did say that, and I do stand by that. But I should have come because you wanted to.” His voice low and earnest.
My smile falters, touched by the weight in his words. Even with duck foam and edible pinecones on the way, he’s still here—trying. And that matters more than any menu.
Across the dining area, a man in a navy velvet blazer stands at his table, clearly trying to calm his nerves. His voice cracks as he clears his throat. Then he drops to one trembling knee on a handwoven Kilim rug that suddenly appears beneath him—clearly part of the restaurant’s “romantic activation” service. Behind him, a string quartet emerges from what I thought was a coat closet, launching intoLa vie en rose.
His date—Meredith, if the scattered claps and whispers are to be believed—gasps and throws both hands over her mouth as a spotlight (yes, an actual spotlight) bathes them in a soft golden glow. Her champagne flute falls to the floor in slow motion as he opens a velvet ring box with shaking hands.
“Oh my god,” someone behind us breathes.
Sam’s elbow nudges me gently. His warm breath tickles my skin as he leans close, murmuring into the space between my ear and shoulder. “That is one massive fuss.”
I swallow hard. The room is clapping now, people cheering, the whole restaurant swept up in the spectacle. But I can’t quite join in. My chest lifts with something quieter. A little ache. A little wish.
Our engagement was Sam on one knee in the kitchen, a ring he saved three months for, pasta burning on the stove. Our wedding was thirty people at the river front lot. I would not change a single detail. But I would have liked him, in front of our friends and family, to look at me the way that man is looking at her; like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
“I mean,” I say, trying to smile as I blink too fast. “Sometimes a girl wants to be the center of attention. Right now? She feels the center of his world, and she knows everyone around her sees it too.”
He doesn’t tease me for it. Doesn’t laugh. Instead, his hand finds mine beneath the table, strong and steady. He traces light circles into my palm, his thumb moving slowly, purposefully.
“I know that now,” he says, voice low but firm.
I bite my lower lip. My cheeks warm with equal parts gratitude and longing. I feel seen, and I hate how much I needed that.
He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my fingertips, then holds them to his lips like he’s memorizing the feel of me all over again. My breath stutters.
And just like that, the room fades.
The string quartet, the applause, the wine—it all disappears. There’s only him.
As the dinner service continues, each course more outlandish than the last, Sam’s lips curve. The room is still buzzing from the proposal when I catch Sam looking at me the way he used to—like he’s already three steps ahead, already building something in his head.
“So there is something I wanted to suggest.” He shifts closer, his thigh grazing mine under the table. “I had an idea. For your property.”
