Chapter 2

Erica

The steamfrom my latte whispers secrets just before I send it flying across the table. "Shit!" It"s like slow motion, hot liquid spreading a map of chaos over the white surface, seeping toward innocent bystanders in the form of scones and smartphones.

"Here, let me help with that." The voice is deep, calm amidst my personal espresso hurricane. I look up, and holy fuck. Who is this guy? He's all muscled and buff and he has these piercing blue eyes that are locked onto mine as if he"s assessing a battlefield. Is he military? He looks military. But instead of a soldier"s command, he offers a white napkin, his movements deft, sure.

"Thanks," I murmur, cheeks blazing hotter than the spilled drink. My heart thuds, not from the embarrassment, but from the closeness of him—this guy who looks like he could carry the weight of the world on his shoulders without breaking a sweat. His hands, large and capable, work alongside mine to blot the coffee flood, his fingers brushing against mine with subtle intention.

"Looks like your coffee tried to make a break for it, huh?" he quips, a corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that ignites something reckless inside me. His touch is light, careful, not missing a beat or a drop of the rogue brew.

"Damn, you"ve got a reflex like a cat," I say, half-laughing despite the disaster in front of me. His quick hands are already sweeping up the last of my latte from the table, his grin easy and infectious.

"Only when it comes to saving beautiful women from the tyranny of rogue coffee," he responds, the teasing note in his voice drawing a reluctant smile from my lips.

I can"t help but feel a rush of warmth at his words—not just from the compliment, but also from his willingness to dive into the fray with me. "I"m usually not this clumsy, I swear."

"Don"t worry about it," he says, tossing the soaked napkins onto the growing pile. "It gives character to the place. Plus, now we have an epic tale of bravery and sacrifice to tell our grandkids."

His joke has me barking out a laugh, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet café. "Our grandkids? You move fast considering I don't even know your name."

"Brandon," he gives me a full smile. "And you are?"

"Erica," I tell him.

Brandon.

"And I only move this fast when I see something—or someone—I like." His eyes twinkle with mirth, and there"s an edge of sincerity beneath his playful words that sends a tingle through me.

"Is that so?" I tilt my head, intrigued by the twist in our conversation. "Well, thank you for the save...again."

"Anytime," he says, and the simple word carries a promise that knots my stomach with a mix of nerves and excitement. The mess is all but forgotten as we stand there, the air between us charged with something new, something with potential.

"Guess I owe you one now," I add, biting my lip as I consider him. There"s a depth to Brandon I hadn"t noticed before, a gentleness that contradicts his rugged exterior.

"Consider it a freebie," he counters, "but if you insist on repaying me, I wouldn"t say no to grabbing dinner with you."

The forwardness of his invitation catches me off guard, but the eager flutter in my chest tells me I"m not opposed to the idea.

Not at all.

* * *

I slide into the booth, the warmth of the dimly lit restaurant wrapping around us like a cozy blanket. A soft melody plays in the background, just loud enough to soothe without drowning out conversation. The table is set with candles flickering in the draft, their dance reflecting in Brandon"s eyes as he watches me across the table.

"Is it just me or did we step into someone"s living room?" I quip, glancing around at the plush cushions and intimate spaces between tables.

"Only if your living room serves a five-star beef wellington," he retorts, humor sparkling in his gaze.

Our laughter mingles and fades as a waiter sets down plates of steaming food, the aromas mingling and rising to greet our senses. Brandon"s steak is cooked to perfection, its savory scent making my mouth water. My pasta, a tangle of freshly made noodles and rich sauce, beckons with a promise of comfort.

"This looks amazing," I say, twirling my fork through the pasta.

"Yes, it does," he agrees, but he's not even looking at his steak as he cuts it.

He's looking at me.

My heart does this funny flip in my chest.

Dinner with Brandon isn't just about the food, although that"s good too. It"s the conversation, laced with wit, sprinkled with shared interests and peppered with deep, sincere confessions. He talks about his time in the military with a candor that surprises me. Despite the danger and hardships he faced, he speaks of those years with a sense of pride and purpose.

"And what about you, Erica? Tell me about your art," he asks, looking at me with genuine interest. His elbows are propped up on the table, his chin resting on his clasped hands as though my words are the most important thing in the world to him.

I tell him about my passion for painting, how I can lose myself for hours in colors and textures. I talk about how each piece feels like giving away a part of my soul. It's intense, but it's also liberating. As I speak, Brandon"s gaze never wavers from mine. He absorbs every word, every inflection, every emotion that colors my voice.

I've never felt so…watched. In a good way.

Laughter punctuates our dinner as we share stories—some funny, some painful. And when we broach more serious topics—war for him and artistic struggle for me—there is an understanding there that is both comforting and thrilling.

"Who knew," he muses after we"ve finished our meal, leaning back in his chair and regarding me thoughtfully. "A soldier and an artist finding common ground."

"Why not?" I challenge, my tone matching his playful one. "Art is about expression, about conveying a message or a feeling. Isn"t that what you do in your field? You fight for a cause, for a feeling of security and peace."

Brandon nods, the flickering candlelight casting an appealing shadow across his chiseled features. "Never thought of it that way, but you"re right. It"s about passion, isn"t it? Both our fields require a certain...fire."

I feel that fire now as he reaches across the table, taking my hand in his. There"s an intimacy in this small gesture that makes my breath hitch. "You certainly have that passion, Erica. It"s one of the things I find most attractive about you."

His words stun me into silence. I"ve never been so bold, so forward with someone I just met. But there"s something about Brandon that makes me want to explore more, unearth the layers beneath his hardened exterior.

"Do you want to continue this somewhere else?" He queries, breaking the comfortable silence between us.

"Like where?" I ask, fighting the urge to squeeze his hand just a little tighter.

"Let"s walk," he suggests, standing up and extending his other hand to help me out of the booth.

Hand in hand, we exit the cozy restaurant and step out into the crisp night air. The city is alive with lights and sounds, but all I can focus on is the warmth of Brandon's hand wrapped around mine.

We walk aimlessly for a while, our conversation ebbing and flowing as naturally as if we"d known each other forever. We talk about everything and nothing at all. Shared likes and dislikes weave an invisible thread between us, strengthening the connection we had ignited in the café.

As we wander past a quaint bookstore tucked into a corner of the street, Brandon pulls me towards it. "You like books, right?" he asks, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark.

"I do," I affirm, my heart pounding in anticipation of what he might have planned.

Inside, the soothing scent of old books wafts to meet us. The warm glow of soft yellow lights casts long shadows on the wooden shelves filled to the brim with books of every shape, size, and genre. It"s like stepping into another world—a quiet, cozy world where time seems to slow down and every moment is imbued with a sense of magic and wonder.

We browse through the shelves together, pointing out favorite novels and authors. But when Brandon picks up a copy of "Pride and Prejudice", my favorite classic novel, my heart swells with unexpected delight.

"Let"s sit," he says, guiding me towards a pair of plush armchairs nestled in a quiet corner of the bookstore. As we sink into the comfortable seats, he opens the book and begins reading aloud. His voice is deep and soothing—a comforting balm that perfectly complements the familiar words of Jane Austen"s timeless love story.

Every now and then, our eyes meet above the pages. There's a wordless exchange that happens in those moments—an intimate understanding that transcends the awkwardness typical of new relationships. It's as if we are getting lost in our own romantic tale, one that intertwines seamlessly with Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy"s courtship.

Hours seem to pass as seconds as we share stories and quotes from other beloved books. I"d never thought a date in a bookstore could be so damn sexy. But everything about tonight, about Brandon, is wildly unexpected and beautiful.

Eventually, we leave the bookstore and resume our meandering walk. The city sleeps around us, but we"re wide awake, fueled by our electrifying connection and the magic of the night. His hand in mine sends waves of anticipation coursing through me. Each casual touch sparks something deep within me.

Before I realize it, we"re standing in front of my apartment building. My heart flutters with a mix of nervousness and excitement as Brandon turns to face me. His intense gaze takes my breath away.

"I had a fantastic time tonight, Erica," he says, his voice low and sincere. "Could I see you again?"

The question hangs heavy in the cool night air between us. My heart hammers in my chest as I meet his eyes.

"I"d like that," I reply softly. My words seem to ignite something in him. His piercing blue eyes are ablaze with emotion that mirrors my own.

It feels like something big is happening here, something bigger than a spilled cup of coffee or an accidental meeting at a café. It"s a beginning, a start of something new and thrilling—something that promises adventures, shared conversations, intertwined hands, limbs.

My cheeks flush at the turn my thoughts just took.

"Goodnight Erica," he whispers against my ear before pressing his warm lips on my cheek—a sweet promise for another day.

As I climb up to my apartment, I can"t help but replay every moment of our date – from the cozy restaurant to browsing the bookstore and finally this innocent yet intimate goodnight kiss on the cheek.

Brandon. The soldier who I suddenly feel like I've known forever.