Page 41 of Stitch & Steel
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Exactly like that.”
Kasey sighed dramatically. “Well, I don’t know whether to be jealous or worried. Are you safe? I mean, I’m happy for you, but this isn’t exactly your usual guy. He doesn’t sound like Brendan.”
“No,” I said, voice going hard. “He’s nothing like Brendan.”
She paused. “Have you heard from him?”
“No. Thank God. And even if I did, I wouldn’t answer. That chapter’s closed.”
Brendan. My clean-cut finance boyfriend. The one with a five-year plan and a second girlfriend. The one who “had business in Atlanta” on Valentine’s Day, but somehow ended up on a date at Luca’s Wine Bar with a redhead who wasn’t me.
Kasey and I had been there.
That’s how I found out.
Everything after that felt like ash in my mouth.
“I didn’t even tink about him anymore,” I told her. “I just feel normal here. Like I can finally breathe. I don’t miss Charlotte one bit. I even might try goat yoga next week.”
“So, you escaped to the mountains to find yourself this summer?” she teased gently.
“Maybe. Or to find Gran. Or to escape. I don’t know. But now…”
“Now you’ve got a smokeshow of a biker with a leather vest and emotional depth flirting with your grandmother and fixing your life with power tools?”
I smiled.
“Yeah. That.”
“Well, damn,” Kasey said. “You better shave your legs and kiss him with tongue. That’s all I’m saying.”
I laughed so hard I nearly knocked my curling iron off the counter.
“I gotta go,” I said, standing. “He’ll be here any second.”
“Wear something pretty. And Bella?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t run this time. You deserve a man who shows up.”
The screen went dark. I stared at myself in the mirror.
Hair curled. Dress on. Heart racing.
And when I heard the knock at the door moments later, it wasn’t just Logan standing on the other side.
It was possibility.
And maybe, just maybe… something that looked a whole lot like fate.
I opened the door, bracing myself for awkward first-date tension or maybe just the sight of Logan leaning on the frame like he owned the place.
What I didn’t expect waswildflowers.
Not the store-bought kind. No plastic wrap or glossy bow. These were early and true—stems slightly uneven, petals still damp from dew, colors bursting like a handful of sunshine and summer.
“Hey,” he said, holding them out in one big, calloused hand.
