But my friends are watching. And worse—they’re enjoying this.
“No. Nope. Not doing it,” I say, arms crossed.
Harper raises a brow. “You made me sing karaoke stone-cold sober last night, remember?”
“That was different,” I argue. “You have stage presence. I have…social anxiety and questionable judgment.”
Olivia laughs quietly but doesn’t push. She just gives me a look that says you can do this, even without words.
I let out a dramatic sigh. “Remind me again why we still do this?”
Harper reaches over and squeezes my arm. “Because comfort zones are boring and you, Ivy Taylor, are one yes away from something good.”
I glance between them, already crumbling. I hate how well they know me.
I push my chair back, muttering under my breath. “If I trip, cry, or burst into flames, I’m blaming both of you.”
Harper claps her hands. “That’s the spirit!”
My legs feel like Jell-O as I stand. The city hums around me—laughter spilling from café tables, the distant honk of a car, the shimmer of a saxophone, a trumpet calling from somewhere down the block, and the steady heartbeat of drums weaving it all together. And somehow, every note feels like it’s carrying me closer to him, like the entire city is in on the dare.
He hasn’t noticed me. Not yet.
Good. Maybe I can get this over with before he even registers what’s happening.
I reach him just as the song shifts, the melody softer now. My heart slams against my ribs.Okay, Ivy. Just do it.
Before I can overthink it, I close my eyes, take a breath…
And grab his hand.
The moment my fingers touch his, it’s like flipping a switch. His hand is warm, and for a beat, he doesn’t move. Then his fingers tighten around mine, deliberate and sure, which sends a jolt right through me.
I look up, and suddenly, the world spins.
His gaze is intense, unreadable, but not cold. No, it’sworse than that. It’s curious. Focused. Like he sees right through me.
He’s taller than I expected, towering over me in a way that makes me feel both tiny and completely seen. A ripple of cold works its way down my spine. There’s something dangerous in the way he holds himself, all calm and confident, like nothing ever surprises him. And yet, there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes too, as if he is happy to see me.
We stay like that, locked in this odd, pulsing moment. His fingers are still laced with mine. The music in the background feels far away, secondary to the way his thumb brushes lightly against my hand, like he’s not ready to let go.
I need to say something. Anything.
“I—uh—your hand is…big.”
Oh my gosh. Why am I like this?
His lips twitch into a smirk, a slow amused curve that makes my stomach flip. He says nothing at first, just watches me with those midnight eyes. The silence stretches long enough for me to want to dissolve into the pavement. I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.
My heart stutters. “Um…are you gonna let go?”
He tilts his head, just a little, and there’s that flicker again. Interest and a bit of amusement. “Do you want me to?”
I blink, completely thrown. What kind of question is that? And why, why does a tiny part of me whisper no?
He is so not the type of guy I normally go for. I’m a book-before-bed kind of girl—the one who’d rather spend Friday night curled up with a novel than out at some loud party. I like dependable. Quiet evenings with a blanket and tea. I’m the one who sends polite texts and overthinks mypunctuation. The girl who feels more at home in a library than in a crowd. I like safe. I like predictable.
This man? He looks like a story with a twist ending. Tattoos and secrets. The type of man who walks straight into the storm because he knows he can handle it.
