Page 28 of Monsters, Vows, and Growls
He took my hand and led me down a surprisingly paved path that wound through the trees and dipped into the western edge of the Hollow.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
Patrick smiled like a man with a secret, and I hated how much I wanted to know what it was. My heels clicked softly on the gravel, but he slowed his pace without my asking—like he always used to when I wore shoes that made me two inches taller and thirty percent clumsier.
After a few minutes of walking, I saw lights. Tiny, warm fairy lights strung between trees, their soft glow flickered through branches like fireflies caught mid-dance. They lit a narrowwooden bridge that stretched over a stream and led to a small open-air structure on the other side.
It was… magical.
Rustic wood beams formed a frame overhead, draped in ivy and more lights. A table stood at the center, already set with linen napkins, mismatched vintage plates, and flickering candles inside glass jars. The scent of fresh herbs and something baking drifted faintly in the breeze. My breath caught.
“You did this?” I asked.
He nodded. “It’s part of a future event space for the Hollow. It's not open to the public yet, so I figured…” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly boyish. “Might as well put it to good use.”
I turned in a slow circle, taking in the firepit off to one side, the stack of handmade blankets, the bottle of wine chilling in a tin pail.
“Did Carol help you plan this?” I asked, trying not to get emotional over a patch of fairy lights and a very well-positioned bouquet of wildflowers.
“Nope.” His grin widened. “Carol’s better at threats. This was all me.”
I turned back to him.
“You’ve changed.”
“Yeah.” He said, stepping closer, voice low. “But the important parts? The ones that always loved you?” He reached up and tucked a curl behind my ear, his fingers barely brushing my skin. “Those never went anywhere.”
I was about to make a joke. Deflect. Redirect. Anything to stop the feelings from surging so fast, they left me lightheaded. Instead, I said, “Then you better sit me down and feed me something spectacular.Because if I’m letting you try again… it better be damn worth it.”
Patrick’s smile turned roguish. “Oh, don’t worry, Chef. I’ve got appetizers, a main course, and at least three kinds of dessert.”
“Ambitious.”
“I’m trying to earn my second chance.” He replied with an expression on his face that was hard to describe. It was rueful, guilty, hopeful, and so insecure, it nearly tripped me. Thankfully, he offered me a chair, and as I sat, the candles flickered just enough to light the quiet hope behind his eyes.
The first bite shut me up. I blamed the bread. It was warm, soft in the center, with a perfect golden crust and a whisper of garlic and herbs. I didn’t even like garlic bread that much. But this—this was homemade. And it was perfect.
I stared down at the slice in my hand like it had personally betrayed me. “Youmadethis?”
Patrick grinned across the table, hands folded as if he were in court awaiting a verdict. “I did.”
“From scratch?”
“Three tries. The first one could’ve doubled as a brick. Second one almost caught fire. Third one... well, that’s what you’re eating now.”
“Who evenareyou?” I asked, reaching for another piece before I finished the first.
“Someone who paid very close attention to your face the first time I took you to Giardanno's Pizza place.”
My heart clenched so hard I nearly dropped the plate. Giardanno had been our favorite restaurant. Maybe because it was the only one that worked within our teenage budget, or maybe because the food was delicious. I took a sip of wine to cover up how much his words affected me. How muchheaffected me. We moved through the courses slowly. Every dish—from bruschetta al pomodoro to lasagna—wasn't anything overly fancy, but it was thoughtful, perfect, and delicious. Each plate tasted like memory and longing and quiet apologies. He wasn’t trying to impress me with extravagance. He was trying toshow mehe remembered.
By the time we got to dessert, I was full. He poured me another glass of wine—Chianti—and placed a little ramekin in front of me. Molten chocolate cake. I stared at it for a full ten seconds. “You remembered this?”
He grinned, "How could I forget? You had it every time!"
I laughed softly; it slipped out before I could stop it. But he didn’t smile this time. He just looked at me. Really looked at me. Like he was looking at the girl sitting next to him in that tacky, red plastic booth. But also, like he saw something more—much more. I didn’t know what to say. So instead, I reached for the spoon and took a bite. The moment the chocolate hit my tongue, rich and melty and painfully familiar, I closed my eyes and whispered, “Okay, fine. This was a damn good dinner.”
