Page 17 of Viking

He follows me in, looking around my small living room with a polite curiosity. The room is basking in natural light from all the windows. The plantation shutters open letting the setting sun paint everything in warm hues. The ceilings are high and the original owner—my home is about a hundred years old—elevated the room beautifully with elaborate crown molding. A plush brown leather sectional takes up most of the living room, an olive-green knitted blanket and a couple of matching pillows complete the look. It’s flanked on both sides by antique wooden end tables. An oversized matching ottoman sits centered in front of the sofa atop a moody floral Oriental rug. A large TV is mounted to the wall above a beautifully trimmed-out fireplace. “I like your house,” he says.

“Thanks,” I reply from the recently refinished galley kitchen, grabbing a vase from the cabinet above the fridge and filling it with water. “I bought it two years ago. I’ve been renovating little by little.” I hear his boots on the wood floor as he walks around the corner toward me.

I fill the vase, setting the flowers inside, but I can feel him watching me. When I turn back, he’s standing there, hands in his pockets, studying me like he’s searching for something familiar in the space between us.

“Ready?” he asks. His voice is gentle, careful.

I nod, tucking my clutch under my arm. “Ready.”

Logan’s truck is parked in my driveway, a black Chevy Colorado ZR2. He leads me to the passenger side, opening the door for me. His hand brushes my lower back as I climb in, light and fleeting, but enough to send a small current through me. It’s such a simple gesture, but it feels protective.

As he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, I steal a glance at him. His hands rest easily on the wheel, his expression composed, but there’s something in the way his fingers flex against the leather that makes me think he’s just as nervous as I am.

“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

He glances at me, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Nope. It’s a surprise.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“Not at all,” he says, teasing. “I’m pretty sure you’ll like it. And if you don’t…” He pauses, his grin widening. “Well, I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

Next time.

I can’t stop my smile.

“Confident, are you?” I hope he doesn’t hear the slight breathlessness in my voice.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Maybe a little.” Then, more softly, “But I figure, worst case? I still get to spend the evening with you. So it’s a win either way.”

Hampton, Virginia

April 27, 2024

1916

Logan

I park my truck a block away from the restaurant and climb out, hurrying to Lila’s door before she can reach for the handle. I offer her my hand, and she takes it, placing one heeled foot on the running board before gracefully stepping down. For a second, she keeps hold of my hand, our fingers loosely laced together, before she lets go.

Six years of thinking about her, and now she’s right here.

“This is beautiful,” she says, looking up at the brick façade of the restaurant. The glow of vintage lanterns casts a warm light against the deepening evening.

“I hoped you’d like it.” I study her expression, trying to gauge if this was the right call. “Figured something intimate might suit us better than loud music and a crowd.”

Her lips curve slightly. “You figured right.”

I hold the door open for her, my pulse kicking up when she brushes past me, close enough for the scent of her perfume to linger, vanilla mixed with something floral.

Inside, the restaurant is cozy but elegant, all exposed brick, dark wooden beams, and soft candlelight. The kind of place that feels timeless. The hostess leads us to a corner table by the fireplace, and I pull out Lila’s chair before taking my own.

“I didn’t take you for a ‘candlelit dinner’ kind of guy,” she teases, tilting her head as she studies me.

I shrug. “I have layers.”

As soon as we order, the conversation flows easily. Too easily. There’s no awkwardness, no stumbling to find common ground. It’s like we’ve stepped back into something familiar only, now, there’s an edge to it. A quiet awareness that wasn’t there before.

We trade stories, learning more about each other’s lives since Vegas, but the one topic we’ve both been skirting eventually settles between us.