The next night Samson picks me up, at seven o’clock on the dot.

I asked my sister to get the inside scoop before the date—obviously—and she found out that Samson was just here for one more night.

She made me swear that I wouldn’t get all crazy for a man who wasn’t available, and I crossed my heart.

But last night at the club Samson looked different, sounded different too than I remember. Like he was more present, more genuinely interested. I don’t know much about him, but I guess tonight I am going to find out.

“Wow,” he says, walking in my condo with a dozen pink roses wrapped in brown paper, tied with a white grosgrain ribbon. Basically, the most perfect bouquet ever made. “You look beautiful, Ava Grace.”

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I hide a smile, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

“You clean up pretty nice yourself.” I take the proffered flowers from his hands, drinking him in as I do. He is in dark denim and a flannel shirt, but it’s slim fitting, tight on his biceps, and rolled up at the sleeves. He looks freakin', insanely hot. His hair is slicked back effortlessly, and his beard taunts me, -making my ovaries explode as I imagine it between my legs like it was before.

Like I have dreamed about so many times since.

“I made reservations,” he tells me as I fill the vase with water, adding the roses.

“Oh yeah? Where? I’m starving.”

He smiles at that, and then answers. “An Italian restaurant, Little Mia Mia, I hear it’s fantastic.”

“Ohh, that’s my favorite restaurant. You’re going to love it. Do you like meatballs? They have the best meatballs ever.”

He grins, as if unable to resist joking like a thirteen-year-old boy. “You like balls, huh?”

I smirk, grabbing my jacket, gloves, and purse. Samson follows me to the door and I lock it behind us. “Oh, I love balls, Samson. Big, juicy balls.”

He laughs, deep in his belly, and opens the door of the rental car. “Good, because you can have as many balls as you like, sweetheart.”

I squint my eyes, looking at him before he closes the door. Sweetheart? “If I remember correctly, you only have two. What if I want more?”

He laughs again, “Guess you’ll have to order some extra off the menu to take home.”

On the drive to the restaurant, I point out my stomping grounds. “That shop has the best coffee, and this park is where I play Ultimate Frisbee in the summer. Though I’m terrible at it. But it’s still fun. Oh, and that is where the farmers market is on Sundays.”

“You really like it here, then? Could you ever imagine leaving?”

We pull up to Little Mia Mia and let the valet take the car. Sitting down at the table—a corner booth, white linens, candlelight—I feel a sense of calm wash over me. I’m not nervous or trying hard to be something Samson will deem attractive or worthy.

With him, I feel like I can be myself, so I bask in the romantic ambiance of the restaurant, and tell Samson I’m ordering for us both

Then I answer his question. “I love Denver, I grew up here and moved back after college, but I’m not sold on the idea of being here forever. I guess I’m open to anything and thankfully my business is portable. I can make jewelry anywhere in the world.”

“So why don’t you do that?” he asks. “Why not set up shop in Paris or Peru?”

A waiter comes around and I order our dinner: spaghetti and meatballs, of course, and a bottle of red wine.

“I traveled growing up, and in college I did a few semesters abroad. But the truth is, I’m not chasing a dream. I already have it. A business I love, that brings joy to every customer. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for more.”

“Nothing more?”

I sigh, “Well I’d love to be married, have children, but after everything that happened over the last few weeks, I’ve learned more about what I really want, what I want to embrace.”

“And what’s that?” Samson’s elbows are on the table, leaning in as if my words are precious and must be heard.

“I want to learn to just let it be. Let the cards fall as they may and not try to force my life down a certain path. Let it be.”

“Let It Be, like the Beatles song?”

I nod, remembering Heart of Gold, imagining his mother washing the dishes or folding the clothes and repeating the words of the song, words that meant so much to him.

Samson runs his hands over his beard as if considering saying something. But then the spaghetti is served and the mood changes.

“These are some big balls,” he says, grinning.

“Yep. Some of the biggest.” I take a sip of the Merlot, savoring this unexpected evening with Samson. “So, tell me about you. You know where I live, what I do, my family, my life plans. What about yours?”

He chooses that moment to take a bite of pasta, and his eyes don’t meet mine. Awesome, so we are back to square one. I’m on another date with a man who is not intending to open up to me at all.

But then he uses his napkin to wipe his mouth, and he clears his throat and looks me in the eye. “It’s really fucking hard to talk about myself, so be patient, Ava Grace.”

I twist my lips, wanting to defend myself, but then he continues talking and I stop and just try to listen.

“You know Taylor and I lost our parents when we were young, right?”

I nod, not knowing the all the details, but knowing Taylor was only seven years old, and that they spent their childhood being shuffled around to distant relatives, and eventually ended up in foster care for a few years.

“Well, I blame myself for a lot of what happened. They died in a car crash, but it was because they were coming to pick me up from school. I had gotten in trouble, was suspended—again. It was junior high and I was an asshole. But my dad, he left work, got my mom, and the two of them were headed to the school to take care of the mess I’d made. On the way, there they hit some ice and died.” Samson tightens his jaw, his shoulders tense.

I blink back the tears and reach across the table to Samson’s hand. He takes mine in his, his skin softer than I expected, his grip tight as if he needs to hold onto something right now. Hold on to me.

“Fuck,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve never told anyone that. I’ve blamed myself for years, thinking that if I’d had my shit together, I never would have ruined my family. For a long time, I was on the straight and narrow. Doing my best to take care of myself and Taylor, but once he was eighteen, I let loose again. Let myself get in trouble one too many times, and that’s why I left. I skipped town needing to clear my head, you know?”

“Samson, it wasn’t your fault they died; it was an accident.” I run my fingers over his thumb, my heart aching for him, understanding him better now that he’s shared this part of himself. “And after so many years of taking care of Taylor, still a young man yourself, of course, you let loose for a while, you never had a real chance to sow your wild oats.”

“Even if I know that logically, it’s still hard to believe. Especially now with Taylor getting married. Hell, my mom would have loved to meet Sophia; to be here for all this.”

“That makes sense. I bet different times of the year, in general, are more difficult than others.”

Samson nods. “The holidays are always a shitty time for me. I retreat every chance I get.”

“Do you think you’ll always be this way? Need to be alone in the mountains to stay grounded?” I tear off a piece of bread, watching Samson contemplate my question.

“I hope not, Ava Grace. I don’t always want to be alone.” When he looks at me now, it’s as if he’s speaking directly to my soul. It’s like he sees me, is echoing everything inside of me.

“What do you want then, Samson?” I ask.

“I want a wife, a family. But I’ve always been my own worst enemy. I always push people away because what if I let someone in, really in, and then I fuck it up and ruin things. Ruin them?” Samson is choking up; his eyes fill with tears. “That’s what happened with my parents. I fucked things up and they paid for it.”

I wipe away the tears on my cheek, shaking my head. “No, Samson. That’s not the way it works. Your past doesn’t define you, good or bad. Who you are right now, the man you choose to be today—that is what matters.”

He looks at me, blinking back his tears. “I want to be a good man, a man who doesn’t run when he is scared.”

“Then don’t. Be a man who stays.”

He takes hold of my hand again. The spaghetti’s cold, the wine warm in our bellies, the heat between us growing.

“Let’s get out of here,” he tells me.

He doesn’t need to ask me twice. I want to follow wherever Samson leads.