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“Gerald’s a great name,” I call back.

“I know!”

Dottie waves at me over the roof of the car, entirely too pleased with herself. Then it’s just Luke and me for one more second at my door.

He steps in close and wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a hug. I go, easily, my face against his shoulder, and it should feel like a goodbye and instead it feels like a promise.

Then he lowers his head, and his mouth finds my ear, low, just for me.

“For the record. I’ve been thinking about kissing you nearly every day for three weeks.” His voice does something to my knees. “And now that I know what it’s like, I’m going to need to do it again. Soon. Frequently. Consider yourself warned.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there’s the smile, mine, the third one, except it isn’t hiding anymore. He brushes a piece of hair off my face. “Text me when you get home.”

“So you know I made it?”

“So I know you made it.” He opens my car door. “Go on. Before I forget I have a kid.”

I get in. He shuts the door, taps the roof twice, and jogs off toward Dottie and Bo and Gerald the duck, and I watch him go.

And then I lose it.

In the front seat of my own car in a church parking lot. I put both hands over my face and make a sound I have never made in my adult life, high and undignified and thoroughly ridiculous, and my feet do a small drumroll on the floor mat, and I am so glad no one can see me, because I am a licensed mental health professional and I am behaving like a fourteen-year-old who got asked to the dance.

He kissed me. Luke kissed me.

I have not felt this in so long I forgot it was a thing that happened to people. To me.

I’m still grinning at nothing when my phone pings in the cupholder.

Luke

I’m serious about reassessing our initial conversation.

Can I pick you up tomorrow and take you to Royal Brew?

Royal Brew. Where it all started.

I read it twice. My heart’s doing the drum-line thing again.

I type back before I can overthink it.

Olivia

Are you asking me on a date?

Luke

Yes ma’am.

Chapter 20

Luke

I’d like it on the record that I am a thirty-two-year-old man who runs into burning buildings for a living, and I have changed my shirt three times over a cup of coffee.

The gray henley looked like I was trying too hard. The flannel looked like I hadn’t tried at all. I’m in a navy button-down now, sleeves rolled, and I’ve decided it’s the one, mostly because I’m out of clean shirts and out of the patience to keep pretending I know what I’m doing.

I grab my ball cap off the dresser, then catch myself in the mirror.