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EPILOGUE
PEYTON
One year later
Micah stepsup behind me and wraps me in his arms. “Almost ready?” His starry-sky irises meet mine in the mirror and, for a moment, we breathe in sync with each other.
Although Micah and I have become practically inseparable the last year, we took things slower than most couples. With our pasts, Micah and I decided there was no need to rush things.
We spent every available minute of the day together and every night in each other’s arms. Yet, we waited until two months ago to move in together. The wait had nothing to do with my rent at the apartment or that we wanted occasional solitude. More like we wanted to ease into this step. Ease into sharing space full time with a new person. Ease into cohabitation.
“Yeah. One more minute.”
Micah kisses my bare shoulder. “I’ll wait in the living room.”
He exits and leaves me to finish getting ready. I do one last once-over to make sure nothing is out of place. After a quick swipe of gloss, I tuck the tube in my purse and join Micah in the living room.
“Ready when you are,” I say and offer my elbow to him.
He takes my arm and guides us out the door and to the car. We wind our way out of the neighborhood, then Micah drives us south to an undisclosed location for dinner. He hasn’t told me the reason why I needed to dress up, but I suspect it has something to do with us celebrating our “official” one-year anniversary. Yes, we casually dated for weeks leading up to August tenth, but we didn’t want to label our relationship.
Then a switch flipped. Since that moment, we let the world know there is an us.
Miles of highway pass before Micah exits and drives along the city streets. I have no clue where he is taking me, but I do know we are in Tampa. Two more right turns, then a left and Micah drives the car into a parking lot. No name appears on the rustic brick building, just a logo of a setting sun.
“What is this place?” I ask, staring out the window.
“You’ll see. I only know about it through connections at Roar.”
I spin in my seat to face him as we pull up to a valet in a white dress shirt, black slacks, and a black tie. “Micah, this place looks really expensive.”
“If it was too much, I wouldn’t have brought us.” He says that, but I am not buying a word of it.
The valet opens our doors and helps us out. Micah steps around the front of the car, takes my arm, and escorts me inside. The moment we step through the double oak doors, I stop breathing.
This place is expensive. Ridiculously expensive.
My heels clack on antique hardwood as we walk down a long corridor. The interior walls the same brick as the exterior. Soft white light glows from candelabra chandeliers above. Photographs from different eras sit in thick black frames on the left wall—some sepia-toned, others black and white. Tall windows with half-moons on top line the right wall and look out into an enclosed atrium with bonsai, bamboo, stones, and a waterfall pond. From my vantage point, the garden appears to be surrounded by windows, including the rooftop.
We reach a podium where a man and woman wait with warm smiles. “Good evening, sir, miss,” the man says. “May I have the name for your reservation?”
“Reed-Alexander,” Micah answers.
Why did he put the reservation under both our last names?
There is no time to ponder the answer as the host gathers menus and asks us to follow. He leads us through the restaurant and, as suspected, the entire dining area encompasses the atrium. We are seated at a cloth-covered square table for two. The host lights a single taper candle at the heart of the table, bids us a good evening and steps away.
For a moment, I scan the dining area in slight shock. This place isn’t some random place to eat dinner. It is literal fine dining.
Beside the candle is a small vase with a single yellow rose and a sprig of baby’s breath. On a spotless white plate in front of me is an intricately folded cloth napkin. More silverware than I use in a day sits on three sides of the plate. A small plate off to the right and two empty wineglasses also fill my place setting.
Not far from where we sit, a wine cellar with a glass front contains several hundred bottles. Chandeliers from the entry—but larger—hang from thick oak beams in the tall ceiling.
“Micah,” I whisper across the table. “This place is too expensive.” I haven’t looked at the menu yet, but dinner here feels like hundreds for the two of us.
Micah lays his hand on the table, palm up, and waits for me to take it. Without hesitation, I join our hands. A year has passed and I still feel a jolt when we connect. If anything, the jolt gets stronger with time.
“And as I said before, I wouldn’t have brought us if it was too much.” He leans in, lifts my hand, and kisses my knuckles in turn. “Let’s enjoy the evening. Okay?”
Inhaling a deep breath, I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
