Page 35 of Red Flags Only

Right. Because nothing screams romance like contractual obligations.

“Speaking of date…” he trails off.

My eyes flick from a concerningJove will not be riding a bicycle to or from any of these dates.to the man himself. He looks so… sincere. We can go over the rules and expectations on our date, he says, as if it really is that simple, and to him, it is.

I need a game plan here. Jove, apparently, thinks that some combination of clear rules and winging it is appropriate. He’s a mad lad.

“Right,” I say, flipping the contract close and rolling it up into a telescope. “I’m going to go change.” And make myself a plan for surviving the evening with my nerves intact. “You can hang out in here while you wait, or you can hang out in the house. Which would you prefer?”

One of his eyebrows rises, meeting a loose strand of white hair on his forehead. “Do I want to wait in your cozy, comfortable house, or do I want to wait in a mysticalfairytale land of butterflies, twinkle lights, and nature? An admittedly wonderful couch, or a bench beneath a shedding willow tree as commas and monarchs flutter by?” He tsks. “Lyra, I know you’re smarter than this.”

Something that sounds suspiciously like a giggle finds its way out of my mouth, shocking us both and causing my cheeks to flame poppy red.

“Wow,” he whispers, a small smile blooming across his face. “The song of my heart indeed.”

“I’ll just be inside!” I squeak, then clear my throat. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

He nods, lips tipped and eyes soft. “I’ll be under the willow tree.”

I nod, too, then we each head off in… the same direction. Because the willow tree is along the path I have to take to get inside my house. Which is totally not at all awkward. Obviously.

Jove walks next to me, limbs loose with the unbothered confidence he always has. Next to him, I resemble something of a nervous little mouse, dirty from a day of pilfering through people’s walls, fingers twisting painfully together with every step we take.

Thank all, the willow tree approaches, and Jove bids me a temporary farewell before finding a space on the cushioned bench beneath it. I scurry, shuffling down the mosaic pathway until I find myself at my front door, deep breathing as I unlock it.

“He’s Jupiter,” I remind myself. “Jupiter, your best friend. It’s going to be fine.”

I repeat that mantra through washing my face and arms. Through exchanging my dirty, butterfly-printed dress for a clean, lemon-yellow sundress, ignoring my mother’s voice in my head saying howattentionhungryI must be to wear something so bright. Through hiding my not-so-neat hairwith a bandana covered in lemons and vines, also to the tune of my mother’s internalized disapproval, which I fight fight fight for the sake of looking good when Jove has taken care to look so nice himself. Through putting mascara on and choosing to wear my cute green heels, even if this isn’t a real date. And through the trek back to where Jove sits, head tilted back as a cabbage white butterfly rests on his nose.

“Oh my gosh,” I whisper, pulling my phone out of my pocket – the dress has pockets! – to get a picture. The shutter sound clicks, and Jove’s jewel-green eyes leave his friend to land on me, crinkling at the edges.

“A dream come true,” he replies, startling the butterfly into flight.

“Oh my gosh!” I repeat, louder, darting forward to show Jove the picture. “Look!”

He stands, catching me as I tumble on a loose stepping stone, then turns me in his arms so that we can both look at my phone screen.

“Magic!” I exclaim, lifting the phone so he can get a better look.

On screen, he’s relaxed into the bench, arms resting casually on his stomach. His legs stretch out in front of him, crossing at the ankle, one boot over the other on the garden path, just out of frame. On his nose sits the cabbage white, blessing him with her presence.

And blessed he looks, eyes half-lidded as he observes her.

Behind them, flowers tumble down from the willow tree, cascading into a backdrop fit for a dream come to life.

My hand lands on Jove’s arm, which remains wrapped around me. “It’smagic, Jupie. Magic!”

He squishes me into him, then snatches my phone. “You always give me magic,” he says. “I’m sending this tomyself.”

My head pitches back to watch as he types his number into the device, zipping the picture off into wherever pictures go as they travel from phone to phone. “Butterfly blessed!” I buzz.

His head turns, green eyes hitting my own. “Blessed,” he confirms. Then he bends, scoops me up into his arms, and marches toward the front of my house. “Time for our date,” he declares, ignoring my assurances that I do, in fact, know how towalk, opting instead to carry me the entire way to his truck, and only setting me down once he can set me firmly in its embrace.

He buckles me, kisses my forehead, then slams the door shut before rounding to his side.

Okay. Well.

I guess the research has begun.

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