She led us to a cozy corner table with a view of the street. Candles flickered in the center, and the lighting was soft and romantic. It was perfect.
“Everyone here knows you,” I observed once we were seated.
“Small town. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“And they all seem to really like you.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know about that…”
“Dex.” I reached across the table, took his hand. “They do. You can see it. The way they light up when they see you. The way they talk about you. You’re part of the fabric of this place.”
“That sounds way more poetic than the reality.”
“Maybe. But it’s true.” I studied his face in the candlelight. “You belong here. This is your home. You’re part of this place.”
It was a realisation I hadn’t had before. It wasn’t just as simple as the fact that Dex had a business here. He was part of this community. He provided them with a service, but he was also a part of their lives. I’d never formed those connections in Blue Point Bay. Not really. Or at least, not with anyone outside of my family.
Something flickered in his eyes. An emotion I couldn’t quite name. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
Before we could say anything else, our waiter appeared. I ordered the pasta, and Dex got the chicken parm. Maria helped us pick out a bottle of wine to share, and when she left we fell into easy conversation.
Conversation about anything but what we’d both come to realise. A seed had been set though. Dex needed to stay in Willowbrook, so it we were going to be together then I needed to find a way to be here. A way to leave Wren behind.
But that wasn’t something I wanted to face right now. It wasn’t something I wanted to taint the memories of our first real date with.
“So tell me something I don’t know about you,” I said, twirling my wine glass.
“That’s a big question.”
“Start small then. What’s your favorite thing about running the garage?”
He thought about it, his thumb absently rubbing circles on the back of my hand. “The problem-solving. Every car that comes in is a puzzle. Symptoms don’t always point to the obvious cause. You have to dig deeper, think creatively.”
“Sounds like photography actually. You’re trying to capture a feeling, a moment. The technical stuff—aperture, shutter speed, lighting—those are just tools. The real work is seeing what others miss.”
“I never thought about it that way, but yeah. That’s exactly it.” He smiled. “What’s your favorite thing to photograph?”
“People. Specifically, people when they forget I’m there. That moment when they’re so caught up in each other or in the moment that the camera disappears. That’s when you get the real stuff. The love, the joy, the connection. The simple emotionsthat form part of living when you’re not guarding yourself from observation.”
“Is that why you do the candid street photography?”
“Yes. But also...” I paused, trying to find the words. “I grew up with just me and my mom. We’re close obviously, but there’s this thing connection that people have without even realising it. The bonds that tie us to the places we live and the people around us. Sometimes, when the moment is right, when you’re not even thinking about anything but that exact moment in time, you can almost see them. And that’s what I like to try and capture with a camera. It’s silly,” I said blushing in embarrassment.
His expression had gone soft. “No, it’s beautiful, Leigh.”
“It’s also an obsession that thankfully pays the bills,” I added, deflecting.
He laughed softly, but I knew he saw right through me. “You can be both practical and romantic, you know. They’re not mutually exclusive.”
“Says the man who brought me a single sunflower.”
He squeezed my hand softly, his eyes lighting up with amusement and we leaned closer. It all felt so easy. So right. Like we’d been doing this for years instead of hiding for months.
Our food arrived, and we ate while talking about everything and nothing. He told me about growing up with the Farrington brothers, about how he’d essentially moved into their grandfather’s ranch every summer because they spent so much time there. About learning to work on cars from his grandfather, about the day the old man had handed him the keys to the garage.
“He said, ‘It’s yours now. Make it something you’re proud of,’“ Dex said quietly. “I was eighteen. Barely knew what I was doing. But I couldn’t let him down.”
“And you haven’t,” I said firmly. “The garage is thriving. Everyone talks about how good you are, how fair you are.”
