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The conversation started out stiltedly, as we awkwardly tried to act like an engaged couple. But slowly, we found our rhythm. Dylan asked me about my latest painting projects, looking genuinely interested as I described my creative process. In turn, I asked him about his crew at the fire station and the pranks they liked to pull on each other.
We shared fond smiles and soft laughter, leaning in close over the table. Dylan reached out often to squeeze my hand or tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. Each touch was electric, making my breath catch. Under the amber glow of the restaurant, it felt natural and easy. Real.
Our food arrived, and Dylan insisted on feeding me bites across the table. I tried to tamp down the butterflies in my stomach as I accepted the offerings from his fork, my lips brushing his fingers. The pasta was delicious, but I was much more focused on Dylan’s heated gaze on me.
As we waited for dessert, Dylan took my hands in his, running his thumbs over my knuckles. He lifted my hand to his mouth, kissing it without breaking eye contact. The touch of his lips seared my skin long after he released me.
I noticed Linda Walsh seated across the restaurant with a friend. Her eyebrows lifted when she spotted Dylan and I curled toward each other, clearly playing the besotted couple. I offered her a little wave before returning my attention to Dylan, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. He laughed, the sound warm and intimate.
I also spotted Zoe’s brother Jamie having dinner with Janet Lewis, the local reporter, out of the corner of my eye. They were seated close to the front windows. Jamie met my gaze and lifted his wineglass in a subtle toast when he saw me and Dylan. I grinned and nodded back at him, squeezing Dylan’s hand again, and he lifted it up and gently kissed my knuckles.
As the waiter cleared our empty plates, I found myself lingering at the table with Dylan, reluctant for our dinner to end. The candle between us had melted down, casting a soft glow over the remains of our shared tiramisu. Dylan was recounting a hilarious mishap from the fire station involving a rookie, a fire hose, and an ill-timed phone call. I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up as he vividly described the escalating chaos.
“So there’s Travis, soaked head to toe in the water, his phone smashed to bits, and the fire chief standing there fuming because he just got sprayed too,” Dylan said, eyes dancing with humor. “I thought the chief’s mustache was going to fly right off his face!”
I pressed a hand to my mouth, giggling helplessly at the image. “That poor rookie. I hope he survived the wrath of the chief.”
“Oh, he did, after a lot of groveling and extra chores around the station. But we still give him a hard time about it.” Dylan’s smile turned fond. “Honestly, it was pretty hilarious after the fact. Travis took it like a champ.”
I leaned forward, propping my chin in my hand. “It sounds like you all have a lot of fun together when you’re not out saving lives.”
“We do. The crew at the station is like family. More than my actual family, honestly.” Dylan paused, looking thoughtful. “It’s the most at home I’ve ever felt anywhere.”
My breath caught at the open vulnerability in his voice. Our gazes locked, and something warm unfurled in my chest. At this moment, it was just the two of us, the rest of the restaurant fading away.
“What about you?” Dylan asked. “Have you found that here in Pebble Point?”
I considered the question. Moving here, living alone, and focusing intensely on my art had been isolating at times. But then I remembered Zoe’s friendship and encouragement. Mrs. Peterson next door always had a fresh pastry for me. And now, Dylan.
“I think I’m starting to,” I replied softly.
Dylan reached across the table, lightly covering my hand with his own. “I’m glad.”
We sat like that for a long moment, the air heavy with possibility. When the spell broke, we both glanced away, chuckling self-consciously. But Dylan didn’t move his hand from mine. I made no move to pull away either as we lingered, neither of us quite ready for the night to end.
***
I protested as Dylan reached for the check, insisting that since I had invited him to dinner, it was only right that I paid. But he waved away my objections with an easy smile.
“Come on, Avery, what kind of fake fiancé would I be if I didn’t pick up the tab for our first official date night?” he said, his green eyes twinkling playfully.
I had to admit; he made a convincing point. This was all part of our ruse, keeping up the appearance of an adoring couplemadly in love. With a reluctant sigh, I conceded, making him promise I could pay next time after I made my first big sale as a professional artist.
Dylan’s face lit up at the mention of my artistic dreams. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said sincerely. “Your talent is going to take you places, Avery. I just know it.”
His vote of confidence warmed me more than I cared to admit. Once the bill was settled, we made our way outside, where the inky blackness of night greeted us. The air held a briny tang, stirred by the gentle ocean breeze. Dylan turned to me, his features cast in the soft glow of the streetlights.
“How about a walk on the beach to end this lovely evening?” he suggested, holding out his arm chivalrously.
I looped my hand through the proffered arm, my skin tingling at the contact. Side by side, we strolled down the wooden steps leading to the moon-kissed sands. The hypnotic shush of the waves filled the comfortable silence between us. Once or twice, I caught Dylan glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, though he looked away quickly when I turned towards him.
“So...” he finally said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I guess we should probably get our stories straight for the next time we have to, you know, pretend to be madly in love.”
I laughed softly, my cheeks growing warm. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Let’s see...how about our first date? I’m thinking of a moonlit picnic on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. You packed all my favorite foods, even made that peach cobbler I love so much...”
Dylan nodded thoughtfully. “I like it. Oh, and I brought my guitar and played your love songs until you fell asleep on my shoulder watching the sunrise.”
“Perfect,” I said, marveling at how easily we spun this tale of fiction. Yet it felt natural, effortless even.
