Page 41 of Snow Much Trouble
"The marshmallows are non-negotiable."
"Fine. But I'm putting bourbon in mine."
As we stand in line, Dylan's phone starts buzzing too. He glances at it and laughs. "Ian saw the video. He says, and I quote, 'Your singing is an actual crime but I'm happy for you.'"
"I like your brother already."
"You'll meet them all at the distillery Christmas party. If you want to come." He looks suddenly uncertain. "That's not too much, is it? Meeting the family?"
I think about it. Two days ago, it would have been too much. But standing here with snow falling and Christmas music playing and Dylan looking at me like I'm the best present he's ever gotten?
"I'd love to meet your family. As long as you promise never to sing in public again."
"Deal." He kisses the top of my head. "Though I can't promise I won't sing in private. Bourbon makes me confident."
"Bourbon makes you delusional."
"Same thing."
We collect our ciders—mine loaded with whipped cream and a candy cane—and find a bench near the stage. Janet's band is playing another song, and couples are dancing in the square despite the snow.
"So," Dylan says. "Nashville. When do you want to go on our first official date?"
"This doesn't count?"
"This is just the grand gesture. The real first date needs to be planned properly."
I lean my head on his shoulder. "How about tomorrow night? I'll probably be in a complete panic about this song, and you can distract me."
"Perfect. I know a great restaurant. Very romantic. And after dinner, we can go listen to live music somewhere. Support the local songwriting community."
That makes my chest warm. "You really get it, don't you?"
"Get what?"
"What it means to be a songwriter. Why it matters so much to me."
Dylan sets his cider down and takes both my hands in his. "Lauren, I watched you light up when you talked about creating that feeling for people through music. I watched you come alive on that stage just now. Of course I get it. Your passion for your art is part of what makes you incredible."
I blink back tears for the second time today, but these are happy tears. "You're going to make me cry again, and my mascara can only handle so much."
"Then I'll just have to kiss it better."
He does, sweet and slow, tasting like bourbon and cinnamon and promises of more tomorrows.
When we break apart, I say, "I should probably actually drive home at some point. I have work to do."
"I'll follow you. Make sure you get there safe."
"Dylan, you don't have to?—"
"Rule number seven," he reminds me. "I need to make sure you're home safe. And besides, I want to see where you live. See where the magic happens."
"It's a tiny apartment with questionable plumbing and a neighbor who plays drums at weird hours."
"Sounds perfect."
We finish our ciders and walk back to where our cars are parked. The snow has let up again, leaving everything coated in a fresh layer of white. It's like the whole world has been reset, given a second chance to get things right.
