Page 36 of The Icing on the Cake
I’ve changed outfits three times, which is ridiculous for something that’s not even arealdate. It’s just practice, a trial run that means absolutely nothing. So why am I staring at myself in the mirror, fussing with my hair and wondering if this light sweater is too casual, or too dressy, or too…something?
Henry tilts his head, watching me from my bed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him. “This is all Emmy’s fault.”
A knock startles me as Henry bolts for the door, barking once before his tail starts wagging like he’s greeting his long-lost best friend.
I take a deep breath, checking my reflection one last time before opening the door.
Lucian greets me in light-blue jeans and a charcoal henley that shows off those same muscled shoulders I spied through the window the other night. His hair is slightly tousled from the breeze and he’s wearing Vans sneakers and holding a jacket in case it gets colder.
And that’s when I notice he’s holding flowers. Not red roses, but a mix of deep-orange dahlias and golden sunflowers that practically glow like a sunset in the late afternoon light.
“Hi,” I say, hating that I sound out of breath because I’m nervous. I can’t ever hide my nerves—they just bubble up like shaken champagne.
“You look beautiful,” he says back, and for a second we just stand there, looking at each other. He breaks the spell first, holding out the bouquet. “Oh, this is for you. From the farm off the highway leading into town.”
“Wow,” I say, taking them and trying to ignore the way our fingers brush. That farm is a full twenty minutes away and you have to cut your own flowers, which means he actually made an effort for me.
“They’re beautiful,” I murmur before heading toward the kitchen, grateful for the chance to collect myself. It’s not the flowers that have me flustered; it’s the fact that he put thought into this. Autumn colors that match the season, nothing cliché, nothing over-the-top. Simple, but nice.
As I fill a vase for the flowers, I can hear him whispering to Henry, who’s probably rolled over for belly rubs by now. Henry never liked Nate, which may have been a red flag I tried to ignore. Of course, Nate wasn’t too fond of Henry either, but I learned an important lesson from my dog: Henry is never wrong about people.
As we start to leave, I ruffle Henry’s fur before stepping outside into the perfect fall day—crisp air, bright reds and golden yellows dotting the trees like a watercolor painting, while the scent of wood smoke and fallen leaves hangs in the air.
“I’ve got a game for us to play on the way,” he informs me as we head down the back stairs.
He turns to head along the riverside path that leads to the festival. It’s less visible to the road, giving us more privacy and a better view. The trail is one of my favorite things about living in Maple Falls, especially this time of year. Old oak and maple trees arch overhead, their branches heavy with leaves in every shade of autumn, including that particular red that only happens in October. Some of the leaves have already begun their lazydescent, carpeting the worn dirt path and crunching softly under our feet.
The wide creek runs alongside us, shallow and clear, babbling over smooth stones. Every so often, a leaf spirals onto the water’s surface, riding the gentle current like a tiny boat heading into the sunset.
“What kind of game?” I ask.
“It’s called ‘What’s My Perfect Date,’” he says as we round a bend where a wooden footbridge crosses the creek. The bridge rail is draped with wild grapevines, and beneath it, a family of ducks paddles contentedly in the deeper pool.
We pause for a moment to watch them, and I notice how the late afternoon light filters through the canopy above us. There’s something magical about this path in autumn—like walking through a living painting. In the distance, I can hear the faint sound of fiddle music drifting from the festival.
“I ask you a question, you answer,” Lucian says. “For educational purposes, of course. And in case I get quizzed about this date later.”
“Good thinking.” I hadn’t considered what might happen if people question whether this is a real date. Actually, now that I think about it, going on a date with Lucian, real or not, to the Maple Festival could help with that grant application. Plus, it would show everyone I’m finally over Nate. All valid reasons to be seen with Lucian.
“We should probably look like we’re actually into each other, right?” I agree. “So ask away.”
“Okay, first question,” he begins. “Flowers or chocolates?”
“Flowers,” I answer without hesitation. “But not roses.”
“Too cliché,” he says, like he’s reading my mind.
“Am I just that predictable?”
“You don’t strike me as a girl who wants the typical things.”
“Really? How do you know?” I glance at him sideways.
His mouth quirks a little on one side. “Getting to know someone is all about paying attention to the details. You learnmore from watching how they handle small moments than from anything they actually say.”
He steps aside on a narrow portion of the path to allow me to go first. “Next question: fancy restaurant or casual diner?”
