(Two Weeks Later)
Neva leans toward the rose-gilded, full-length vintage floor mirror, her breath a faint mist on the glass. She parts her lips and glides on a soft peach hue,
the fruit-scented balm catching the golden light, smoothing into the delicate texture of her mouth, deepening it, sweetening it.
A slow, satisfied smile curls at the corner of her lips as she breathes in the girl reflected before her.
Then she twirls, the intricately layered flares of her pastel-rose, lace-trimmed skirt swirling and fluttering around her—
until she stops abruptly at the delicate chime of the doorbell.
She steals one last glance at herself in the mirror, fingertips brushing the stray curl that has decoratively slipped from the half-woven, half-loose hair,
an elegant distraction even as her heart kicks into a frantic rhythm.
She angles her body sideways, studying the silhouette—the beige coquette blouse shaping her upper half, the dusty pastel skirt curving gracefully from her waist and flaring gently below her ankles, its lace hem almost grazing the floor.
More impatient chimes of the doorbell cut through the hush of her room, urging her on. She snatches up her beige handbag—
a perfect fit for her compact Bible and a few small essentials,
and moves toward the door.
"Coming!" she calls out, bending down as her hands work quickly, guiding her feet into the waiting kitten heels.
Once she's done, she reaches for the doorknob and pauses, drawing in a steadying breath—
then she pulls the door open.
Rhett's eyes slowly unfurl and softens,
and reflected in them is the girl looking up at him—
her cheeks flushed a scarlet red, as vivid and ripe as an apple in autumn sunlight.
"Hi," Neva says, her voice small, threaded with shyness.
"Hey," Rhett replies, a quiet, mysterious smile tugging at his lips. "Ready for our first date?"
"It's not a date!" she protests, her cheeks blooming into a richer shade of scarlet.
He squints in playful suspicion, arms folding loosely across his chest. "But I thought a romantic outing to get to know the woman I've fallen for counts as one."
She presses her lips together and edges forward, slipping through the narrow slice of space by the entrance—his tall, unyielding frame claiming nearly all of it, forcing her to brush right past him.
"We're just going to a church." She inhales sharply, pressing a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pound against her ribs.
She freezes mid-step as his fingers wrap around her wrist.
"Then ain't I the luckiest man alive," he whispers, squeezing her hand gently, "if my first date happens in a holy place?"
He raises her hand, brushing a delicate kiss to her knuckles, warm and feather-light.
"And did I mention," he whispers, breath warm against her skin, "that to me, you feel like Heaven on earth?"
Goosebumps bloom across her arm in quiet, helpless shivers.
"We—we're gonna be late," she murmurs, slipping her hand from his.
"Wait for me, Angel," he calls, following her down the stairs. Her steps are quick, feather-light—yet he catches up in a heartbeat, his warmth brushing along her spine with every stair she takes.