Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Twinkling lights. Hundreds of them.
The backyard is positively glowing, strands of tiny lights hanging from trees, looping across the fence, and draped over his sister’s playset in the far recesses of the yard.
My eyes strain, making out a table. It’s set near his mom’s shed, white linen and candles flickering in darkness, the soft hum of instrumental music playing in the background.
“Easton…” I breathe, turning to face him. “This is incredible.” I am at a loss for words. “How…?”
He grins down at me, pleased with himself. “I called in a favor.”
“A favor from who? When did you do this?” How did he manage?
I can’t tear my eyes off the scene before me. It’s something out of a dream—one that I never want to wake from. I half expect a fairy to flutter out of one of the trees next to his mom’s shed.
I’m tempted to twirl around with my arms outstretched.
“I take none of the credit. That goes to Phoebe and my mom. I, uh—called them from the gym and they masterminded everything.”
“You called them from the dance?”
“Yeah. Half hour ago, maybe?” He shrugs, looking bashful. “Before I found you and said I wanted to whisk you away.”
More butterflies. More tingles. “This is unbelievable.”
Heart-stopping.
A fairy tale.
I look up into his face; it’s lit by the soft glow of the lights. Chiseled jawline. Straight nose. Gorgeous lips. In this moment, everything feels right. It’s not about the perfect prom night or the fancy dress—it’s about this. Him making this effort. Showing me how he feels.
“Why did you do this?” I ask, reaching for his hand.
“I wanted to,” he says adamantly. “You were the person I wanted to share this night with—not Maddie. I should have told her no from the start, and I should have asked you sooner. I let my stupidity get in the way, and for that, I’m sorry. I was an idiot, but now I want to make it right. I want to make this night what it should’ve been all along—with you.”
As he leads me toward the makeshift dinner table, my lips part.
“Wake me, I’m dreaming,” I whisper as a laugh bubbles from my throat despite the lump forming there. The thought, the effort—it’s too much. “Easton, I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” he murmurs, pulling out a chair for me with a flourish. “Sit and enjoy. Oh—I hope you haven’t eaten yet.”
The truth is, I have eaten already. My dad fed me before I left the house—but looking at the cutlery before me, I would never admit it to Easton. This moment is too perfect to ruin over something as trivial as a meal.
Smiling to myself, I lower myself into the chair, the weight of the evening’s spell settling over me.
Then.
As we relax into our seats, a small figure emerges from the shadows of the back porch.
It’s Phoebe.
She approaches with the seriousness of a professional, face set in a determined expression, a napkin draped over her arm like she’s a seasoned server in a high-end restaurant.
“Good evening! Bona sara.” She mispronounces buona sera with a formal air she must have picked up watching TV. “I’m Phoebe, and I’m your server. Can I start you with drinks? We have an excellent selection of water—both cold and room temperature.”
She’s wearing a white apron that’s far too big for her and holding two glasses of water. Gingerly, Phoebe places them on the table as if she were setting down two precious artifacts.
Satisfied that no water has spilled, Easton’s younger sister stands, hands behind her back.
“I’ll be around if you need any refills or anything else.” She announces. “Just yell, ‘Phoebe, we need you!’ and I’ll come running!”
She turns to scamper off but stops, finger pointed in the air.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you two get the best service tonight. Phoebe’s got it under control! Chef is finishing your first course in the kitchen, and Dad put Rudy in the laundry room so he doesn’t beg for food and get in my way.”
With that, she gives a bow.
Welp. She’s adorable.
“They prepared a meal?” I muse out loud. “How did they have time?”
Easton lays the napkin across his lap. “It’s leftover lasagna from last night—that’s the best Mom could do on such short notice.”
I smile behind my water glass. “I love that.”
From this vantage point I can clearly see his little sister clip-clopping around inside the kitchen, head bopping to and fro as they ready our last-minute dinner.
Within minutes Phoebe reappears, this time with more determination etched on her tiny face than before. She teeters our way, balancing—well, attempting to balance—two plates of lasagna almost as big as she is. Her tiny arms strain. One of the white plates wobbles dangerously. Behind her, Mrs. Westermann rushes forward, arms outstretched, ready to catch the plates if they fall.
“Phoebs, honey,” she coaxes gently. “Let me help you with that.”