Page 39 of Embers in Autumn
Amber
My wardrobe looked like a tornado had torn through it. Every hanger stripped, every half-decent option tossed across the bed in a heap that mocked me. Tops, skirts, a dress I hadn’t worn since my cousin’s wedding, jeans that felt too casual. Nothing seemed right.
I paced the length of the room, hair swishing around my shoulders, still warm from the blow dryer. I’d spent forever washing and drying it just so, letting it fall smooth and glossy the way my grandmother used to say made me look “polished.” A little foundation, eyeliner, and a beige lip gloss had taken care of my face—enough to look awake, not enough to scream trying too hard.
But the clothes… God.
This wasn’t just dinner. It was dinner at Dean’s house. With his daughter. That thought alone made my palms sweat. I wanted to look appealing, yes, because my body had already made its stance on Dean very clear. But I also needed Lana to see someone she could trust, not some stranger trying too hard.
I tried on a pale blouse, stared at myself in the mirror, and ripped it off two minutes later. Too stiff. I pulled on jeans and a cardigan. Too plain. Another dress. Too low cut. Another. Too long.
By the time the bed looked like a crime scene, I was ready to scream.
Finally, my eyes landed on a black dress I hadn’t touched since moving here. Simple, above the knee, fitted just enough tosuggest shape but not scream it. I paired it with a scarf in warm amber tones—it made my hair glow, and the irony of wearing“my color”wasn’t lost on me. Black boots grounded it. Clean. Neat. A little chic.
I breathed out. This worked.
Grabbing my autumn coat and my purse, I checked my reflection one last time in the mirror. My cheeks were already flushed with nerves, but at least I looked like someone who had her act together. Even if my stomach was in knots.
The taxi horn beeped faintly outside. I hurried down, locking the shop door behind me, and slid into the back seat.
As the driver pulled away, I pressed a hand to my lap to stop it from shaking. Dinner with Dean. Dinner with his daughter. God, what was I doing?
The taxi slowed to a stop in front of a small, tidy house with a wide porch and light spilling from the windows. My heart thumped harder than it had any right to. I smoothed my scarf and took a steadying breath before stepping out into the cool evening air.
The door opened before I even knocked. Dean stood there in a dark sweater and jeans, broad and solid, a smile pulling at his mouth. The sight of him loosened something in me.
“You made it,” he said, voice warm.
“I did,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d almost turned the taxi around twice.
He leaned down and brushed a kiss against my cheek. Just a simple kiss, polite even—but my skin burned where his lips had been.
The house smelled incredible. Cream, cheese, herbs, a richness that clung to the air like comfort. I followed him inside, and there was Lana at the table, already setting down three glasses of juice with the seriousness of a hostess.
“Hi,” she said, not shy, just direct.
“Hi, Lana.” I pulled a small bag from my purse. “I brought you something.”
Her eyes widened as she peeked inside. Three paperbacks—one mystery for her age group, one fantasy with a fierce heroine, and one illustrated novel that mixed words and pictures in a way I thought she might like.
“For me?” she asked, almost disbelieving.
“For you,” I said. “I thought maybe we could talk about them, if you like.”
Her grin was sudden and bright. “I’ve wanted to read this one for months,” she said, holding up the fantasy. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome,” I said, relief loosening my chest.
Dean’s eyes met mine briefly, gratitude written in the soft curve of his mouth.
Dinner was… perfect. The pasta bake was bubbling and golden, the tuna tender and rich, the sauce creamy with just enough herbs to make it sing. Lana declared it better than last time, and Dean groaned, muttering something about her keeping score.
“It’s delicious,” I said honestly, and Dean’s ears went just a little pink as he scooped more onto my plate.
Afterward, instead of letting the evening drift into polite silence, Lana pulled out a board game from the shelf. Something with dice and cards and silly tokens. We spread it across the coffee table, laughter coming easy as Dean fumbled rules and Lana corrected both of us with the confidence of a champion.
At one point, Dean leaned close, his shoulder brushing mine as he reached for a card. The warmth of him stayed even after he leaned back. Lana caught me smiling and grinned wider herself, like she approved of something I hadn’t realized I was showing.
