But eventually, the moment begins to settle. I glance at my empty cup, wishing it wasn’t.
I look up and he’s already watching me.
My heart gives a small, unexpected tug. I don’t want to go.
And judging by the quiet shift in his posture, the way his fingers tap restlessly on the table, I don’t think he wants me toeither.
The air thickens, not with tension, but with possibility.
Then, my phone rings, shattering the spell.
I jump, fumbling in my bag until Olivia’s name glows on the screen.
I glance back at Gray, almost apologetically.
He meets my gaze, then gives a soft, understanding nod—like he already knows I’m about to ruin something we were just beginning.
I answer, slower than necessary. “Hey, Liv.”
“Just checking you’re still alive,” she says dramatically. “Cough twice if the hot stranger has you tied to a chair.”
“I’m fine,” I say, smiling despite myself, twirling the edge of my sleeve just to give my hands something to do.
“Well, in case you forgot, girls’ weekend is still a thing. Dinner in two hours. Harper and I are headed back to the hotel to change.”
“Right.” I hesitate, eyes drifting back to Gray and staying there a beat too long. “I’ll be there soon.”
I hang up. But I don’t move.
Because if I stand, this moment ends—and some irrational part of me is already terrified of not getting it back.
Gray’s gaze holds mine, which isn’t making this any easier.
“I should go,” I say at last, the words catching somewhere between my chest and my throat.
He offers a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I get it.”
We stand, though I’m fairly certain my body is staging a slow-motion protest. I follow him out of the coffee shop into the golden warmth of the New Orleans afternoon. The streets hum with life—tourists meandering past locals, a saxophone wailing from a nearby corner, the sweet scent of beignets mixing with something spicy and rich in the air.
We step out into the warmth, the late afternoon light catching on his hair. He glances down at me, still holding the door open until I’m clear, then falls into step beside me.
“Which way am I walking you?” he asks, like it’s a given that he’s not letting me go alone.
“The Belle Maison,” I say. “It’s about three blocks from here.”
He nods once, like that settles it, and then his hand slips into mine—like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My pulse trips over itself.
And it’s completely undoing me.
I don’t look at him, I can’t. Because if I do, I’m afraid he’ll see exactly how much this tiny gesture has knocked the air out of my lungs. Instead, I focus on the rhythm of our steps.
After a few strides, he glances down, a hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Crowds make you nervous,” he says casually, “but I’m starting to think you get quiet when you’re trying not to smile.”
My head snaps toward him. “That’s not true.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Oh, it’s true. You’re doing it right now.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t fight the smile that edges in anyway.
