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We stop after three.
Blaming the ominous-looking thunderclouds rolling in from the east and the grande oat lattes that accompanied this morning’s doughnuts, we pile back into the minivan and drive to my place so we can pee.
“Dibs on the bathroom,” I call as we pull up to the sidewalk.
Kiersten hits the locks as I try to open my door. “Bathroom etiquette always defers to the person who has squeezed the most humans out of their vajay.”
I manually flip the lock and push the door open. “If I run, you won’t be able to catch me without peeing yourself.”
I race up the walkway and through the gate and get ready toleap the steps before I’m forced to skid to a stop to avoid the obstacle in my path.
I hear Kiersten’s huffing breaths before she turns the corner, also stopping to stare. “I take it all back. Stay here. Marry that man. Lock him down. You’ve found yourself a keeper.”
It’s only a small mason jar filled with wildflowers. And judging by the heather, honeysuckle, and cornflowers—the same variety that grows down near the water—the flowers are handpicked. But I know for a fact that Daxon McGuire has never, ever in his thirty-one years sent a woman flowers, except for my Aunt Livi last year when she was in the hospital getting her hip replaced. He made a huge deal when he brought her the also-handpicked bouquet, telling her that his mom was a gardener who taught him the meaning of every flower and that the act of giving them wasn’t to be tossed around lightly. Aunt Livi got anemones, buttercups, and irises for protection, humility, and wisdom.
I reach for my phone and search. According to Google and theFarmers’ Almanac,Dax has sent meadmiration,devoted affection,andbe gentle with me.
“Trent gave me flowers once.” My sister picks up the jar and inhales deeply. “He was still wooing me. Showed up for a date with a grocery store bouquet, and I fell head over heels in love.” She hands me the jar. “This year, for our eleventh wedding anniversary, he bought me a steam mop. Believe me when I say, enjoy this while it lasts.”
I take the flowers inside and set them on the counter. With the flowers and the late-morning sun streaming in through the window, it almost looks cheery in my little space. Kiersten remembers her quest for the bathroom, giving me a few precious moments to read the note carefully tucked between two stems.
It’s written on notebook paper in blue Bic pen ink and Dax’s nearly illegible handwriting.
This is me attempting to do things right. Pick you up at seven—Dax.
Holy shit. I grip the counter as my legs momentarily forget how to function. My stomach feels like it’s ballooned up into my chest. Like it’s filled with happiness and hope. I’ve never, ever felt this way in my entire life.
A few moments later, the bathroom door opens, and a relieved-looking Kiersten emerges.
“So, where’s he taking you on this big date tonight?”
I hold up my hands. “I have absolutely no idea.”
She grabs her purse from where she threw it on the counter and pulls something from her wallet.
“Beautiful, sweet boy, isn’t he?” It’s a picture of Riley. His school photo from last year.
She reaches into her purse again and presses something into my palm. “I don’t care how sexy he looks in those tight jeans of his. Never trust the pullout method.”
Chapter 16
There’s a softknock on my door at exactly 6:58. It stirs the swarm of butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach. I open it to find Dax, standing in a pair of black jeans and a different white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to expose the bottom of his tattoo on his inner left arm—a clock face. I used to think it was edgy, but now it’s an ironic reminder that I’m up against my own ticking clock.
“You look beautiful.” Dax ducks his head and steps into my kitchen, where I have to hold myself back from pouncing. I’m almost afraid to kiss him because kissing will lead to groping, groping to grinding, then, before we know it, we’ll be naked on the linoleum floor, and that’s not what tonight is about. Instead, I press up onto my toes and kiss his stubbled cheek. He smells exactly like he’s supposed to—Irish Spring soap and the faintest trace of aftershave.
“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” I ask.
Even though he’s been texting me questions all day, Dax has been vague about what exactly we’re doing on our big date, although this Dax now knows my favorite cheese, chilling-out album, and shoe size: a dainty seven.
“I packed us a picnic,” he says. “Thought we could hang out at the harbor. Eat cheese. Watch the sunset. Does that work for you?”
When Stuart took me on our first date, it was at a restaurant in Toronto’s Ossington neighborhood where he knew the chef. The food was delicious, but the vibe was pretentious. I both loved it and felt completely out of place. The beach with Dax feels comfortable. Like slipping into a pair of perfectly worn-in shoes.
Speaking of shoes. “Why did you need my shoe size then?”
Dax opens my door and holds out his arm, waiting for me to exit ahead of him. “That was to throw you off. I wanted our date to have an air of mystery.”
Strangely, it does. Surprises from a man I thought I knew everything about.
