“They’re for your mom.” I glance at her with a mischievous smirk. “You already like me. She’s the one I need to win over.”
She bursts out laughing, swatting my arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And charming,” I add.
She lifts the bouquet to her chest, sighing with a smile. “Fine. I’ll allow it.”
I round the truck and slide into my seat. Before I even buckle, I reach down in the back seat and hand her the drink carrier. Inside: a second coffee, an empty to-go cup holding a mini bouquet of matching flowers, and a brown paper bag with a chocolate croissant.
Her eyes widen. “What’s all this?”
“Coffee for later. I know you—you’ll finish that first one before we hit the freeway and wish you had another. Problem solved.” I grin. “And flowers, because of course I’m going to get you flowers, Ivy. And your favorite breakfast from your favorite coffee shop.”
Her eyes fill, shining with emotion. “How are you sogood at this?”
I start the engine and glance her way. “I love you. That’s how.”
She takes a sip, then reaches over to lace her fingers with mine.
And with her hand in mine and a heart full of anticipation, I pull away from the curb—ready for whatever this day brings.
An hour and twenty eight minutes. That’s how long the GPS says it’ll take to get to Ashen Mills, where her parents’ live. But I wouldn’t mind if it took four hours.
Ivy’s legs are curled under her, coffee in hand, humming to the playlist she queued up on my phone. It’s a chaotic mix of country and early 2,000’s and somehow every song feels like it’s underscoring the movie that is today.
“Okay,” she says after a few minutes of quiet, tapping the lid of her cup. “Top three songs of all time. No skipping, no overthinking. Go.”
“Easy,” I say. “Oceans by Hillsong. Starting Over by Chris Stapleton. And…” I shoot her a look, grinning, “The Middle by Jimmy Eat World. Don’t judge me.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, and then she laughs. “Wow. That’s actually…respectable. Worship song, soulful country, and peak 2000s emo? You’re a mystery, Gray.”
I shake my head, chuckling as I merge onto the highway. “You say that like you don’t scream-sing ‘The Middle’ every time it comes on.”
“I do not…”
“You absolutely do.”
“Okay, fine,” she admits. “But only because it still hits.”
We’ve been driving for about an hour, and it’s been pure magic. Ivy’s sipping her second coffee—because of course she downed the first one before we even hit the highway—and singing along to some acoustic cover of an old country song like it’s her personal concert. My fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel, but my heart’s wrapped around her.
Every time I glance over, I’m a little more undone.
And then—I can't take it anymore.
Without a word, I ease off the highway and pull into a random parking lot.
Ivy looks at me, eyebrows knit. “Everything okay?”
I don’t answer. I just put the truck in park and open my door.
“Gray?” she calls, confused.
I round the front of the truck, heart thudding. She watches me with wide eyes as I open her door.
“Gray, what…”
But I don’t let her finish.
