Chapter 3

As promised, David showed up at noon the next day.

Brielle opened the door wearing a baby blue sundress that clung sweetly to her curves, the fabric light and fluttering with each breath. It dipped low enough to tease, but not enough to look like she knew it. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail, soft tendrils escaping to frame her flushed cheeks. She was the picture of soft temptation—innocence painted over fire.

David’s gaze slid over her, quiet and unhurried. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The heat in his eyes said enough.

His jacket was still folded over her arm. She held it out. “You left this.”

He took it with a nod, folding it smoothly over his arm. “I was thinking,” he said, voice low and smooth, “a picnic might suit this perfect Sunday afternoon. What do you think?”

Brielle’s lips curved, a light dancing behind her eyes. “That sounds perfect.”

The drive was short, but the silence between them felt charged—like a held breath. He didn’t fill it with small talk. He just let it stretch, knowing she would break first. And she did.

“This is… really nice of you.”

He glanced at her, just once. “Isn’t it?”

They arrived at a quiet park just outside of town, mostly empty. Trees arched protectively overhead, casting lazy shadows across the grass. The air smelled like damp earth and pine. It was secluded—by design.

David laid out a thick wool blanket beneath a large oak, far from the walking paths. Then he popped the trunk and pulled out a wicker basket, pristine and heavy with contents. Brielle’s eyebrows lifted as he carried it over with ease.

“You brought all this?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” he said. “My cook did.”

She blinked, her surprise quickly masked, but David caught it—tucked behind her polite smile. That’s what intrigued him about her. She was soft, but not weak. A porcelain shell around something… unknown. He wanted to crack it open.

Inside the basket was a curated spread: thick-cut sandwiches on artisan bread, pasta salad tossed with herbs, a chilled tray of fruit and vegetables arranged like artwork, and two bottled lemonades tucked among ice packs. Everything was intentional. Elegant. Excessive.

Brielle took a bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly. “You have a cook?”

He nodded. “Among other things.”

Her gaze lingered on him. He didn’t elaborate. And she didn’t press—though he could tell she wanted to.

Instead, she looked out across the meadow, letting the stillness settle over her shoulders like sunlight. She crossed her legs on the blanket and tucked her skirt modestly, like she didn’t notice how his eyes tracked the movement. Or maybe she did.

“Tell me about your family,” he said.

She hesitated, then pulled her knees in, arms draped over them. “There’s not much to tell. My parents divorced when I was twelve. My sister was eight. After that, we moved to Los Angeles for a fresh start. My mom kind of shut down. So I took care of her. And my sister. My dad… he remarried. Has two sons now. I’ve never met them. It’s like we just disappeared from his life.”

David watched her carefully. Not just her words—her posture. Her eyes. The silence between sentences.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it more than she could know.

She offered a small, sad smile. “Don’t be. I’m used to being the one holding things together.”

He hated that. Hated the quiet ache behind her strength. Hated that anyone had ever made her carry so much alone.

But he said nothing. He shifted gears—deliberately.

“How do you like UC LA?”

Her face brightened, like someone turned on the sun inside her. “I love it. Honestly. It’s not glamorous, but I love my classes. I like being in the dorms—even if Talia can be a lot.”

David chuckled. “She seems like the type who talks in her sleep.”

“She does,” Brielle laughed, the sound so clear and unguarded it almost startled him. “And sings. Badly.”

He grinned. “So you're saying it’s like living with a tone-deaf Disney princess.”

“Exactly,” she said, giggling, brushing her hair behind her ear again without thinking.

David watched her a moment longer. The way the breeze teased her ponytail. The way her lips curved, open and bright. He wondered if she had any idea what it meant to be looked at like this. Wanted like this.

He reached into the basket and handed her the lemonade. “To new beginnings,” he said.

She touched her bottle to his. “And to unexpected company.”

But she had no idea.

He wasn’t unexpected.

He was inevitable.