Riley
I stood in front of the mirror, nervously twisting the hem of my blouse, while Zara hovered behind me, holding up two dresses like they were trophies.
“Okay, Riley, you have to wear this one.” She held up a fiery red dress that hugged every curve. “It’s sexy, confident, totally you.”
I grimaced. “Zara, that’s way too much. I’m not trying to start a fire—I’m trying to not trip over my own feet.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re always playing it safe. Tonight’s different. It’s a date. You need to own it.”
I bit my lip, considering. The red dress shimmered under the bedroom light, daring me to say yes.
“Fine,” I said with a sigh, “but only if you promise to help me not look like a flaming disco ball.”
“Deal.” She grinned, pulling the dress off the hanger.
Together, we moved to the bathroom, where Zara expertly helped me with makeup—just enough to highlight my eyes and lips without looking overdone.
“Now, hair,” she said, running her fingers through my tangled mess. “Loose waves. Sexy, but effortless.”
We laughed as she struggled with the curling iron, singeing a stray strand, but finally, my hair fell perfectly around my shoulders.
I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t help but smile. Maybe Zara was right.
Just then, a knock came at the door.
Lucas stood there, one crutch under his arm, and a small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand.
“Hey,” he said softly, holding out the flowers. “For you.”
I took them, breath catching. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
He smiled, eyes warm. “Not as beautiful as you.”
Heat flushed my cheeks. “Stop it.”
He chuckled. “Come on. Let’s go.”
We stepped out into the evening, the city glowing under a soft moonlight.
The restaurant was stunning—old brick walls adorned with twinkling fairy lights, delicate lanterns hanging from wrought iron, and the scent of fresh herbs and roasted garlic filling the air.
Inside, the polished wooden floors gleamed, and the gentle hum of conversations mixed with soft jazz playing somewhere off in the corner.
Lucas pulled out my chair with a gentleman’s flair. “Glad you agreed to come,” he said quietly.
I nodded, heart pounding. “Me too.”
He took a breath, looking nervous for the first time. “I’m sorry. For leaving you behind. For not reaching out after high school. I was scared, and stupid.”
I reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m willing to try again.”
His smile lit up the room. “Really?”
“Really.”
“So,” I began, stirring my water, “remember when you thought you could beat me at Mario Kart back in high school?”
He grinned, that cocky smile I’d always loved. “Hey, I let you win. Totally fair play.”
I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah, right. That’s what they all say.”
Lucas leaned forward, his elbow resting on the table. “Okay, maybe I let you win once… but you got lucky.”
I laughed, the sound lighter than I expected. “Lucky? I think you just didn’t want to admit defeat.”
He shook his head, amused. “Defeat? Me? Never. I was just giving you a false sense of security.”
I rolled my eyes. “That false sense is why you kept asking for rematches.”
He chuckled. “You were too competitive. Remember how you’d throw the controller down when you lost?”
“That was once,” I said quickly. “And it was a very intense match.”
Lucas laughed softly. “Yeah, you definitely scared me a few times.”
I smiled, the tension between us easing a little. “What about your habit of always being late? You missed so many practice drills because you slept in.”
He smirked. “I had a system. Keep everyone waiting, look more important.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “You were just lucky Coach was too tired to yell at you.”
He grinned, eyes twinkling. “And you? You were the queen of last-minute cramming for tests.”
“That’s because I work better under pressure,” I defended.
Lucas laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Sure you do. Pressure, or panic?”
I nudged him with my elbow. “Same difference.”
Our laughter mingled with the soft music, and for a moment, it felt like we were teenagers again—carefree and a little reckless, before everything got complicated.
“Feels good,” Lucas said quietly. “Talking like this.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “it really does.”
Suddenly, my phone buzzed.
I glanced down and froze.
A message popped up: Lucas Rivera accused of harassing former physical therapist.