Page 16 of Viking

My breath catches. “What?”

“Dinner,” he says, low and even. “Tonight.”

My pulse stutters.

I don’t know if I should. If I can. We work together now. There have to be rules, right? Expectations. And if anyone found out—

“Nobody has to know,” he murmurs, and I worry I said all of that aloud. “If that’s what’ll make you say yes. But we should probably talk.”

I stare at him, my heart hammering.

I know I should say no. I know it.

But my body is already betraying me, the heat pooling low in my stomach, the ache I’ve tried to forget about for six years.

I swallow hard.

“Okay.” It comes out breathy.

His smile is instant, boyish and genuine.

We exchange numbers and then he’s gone with a promise to pick me up at seven.

Hampton, Virginia

April 27, 2024

6:52 p.m.

Lila

I take a steadying breath, smoothing my hands over the soft satin of my dress for what feels like the hundredth time. The emerald green catches the light as I shift, the fabric hugging my waist before flaring out just enough to feel elegant without being too much. I exhale slowly, trying to calm the restless energy in my chest.

Logan didn’t tell me where we’re going, and the uncertainty knots my stomach. Am I overdressed? I hesitate, reaching for my phone to ask him.

A knock at the door stops me.

He’s here.

My pulse stutters. I saw him a few hours ago, but something about this moment makes it feel like we’re meeting for the first time all over again.

I take another breath, then open the door.

Logan stands on my doorstep, looking effortlessly put together in a black sport coat over a soft black shirt. His khaki pants are tailored perfectly, and the scuffed brown leather boots add a rugged edge that somehow makes him even more unfairly attractive. But it’s the bouquet in his hand that steals my breath—pale pink ranunculus.

“Hi,” he says, his voice softer than I expected. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering, like he’s trying to take in every detail. “Wow. Lila, you look…” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “You look amazing.”

The way he says it—like it slips out before he can stop himself—sends a shiver through me.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice barely above a breath. “You do, too.”

He gives me a small, hesitant smile. “These are for you.” He holds out the flowers.

I take them carefully, my fingers brushing his for the briefest second. “They’re beautiful,” I say softly, feeling my cheeks warm. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice is quiet, like the air between us has thinned, fragile in a way that neither of us wants to disturb.

I glance down at the bouquet, fidgeting with the petals just to give my hands something to do. “Give me one second to put these in water,” I say, stepping back to let him inside.