Warmth flushed over Grace’s cheeks at the reminder. George would be by to pick her up later that afternoon for a date. It had been over a year since she’d seen him last.

Several men she’d danced with the night before had asked her to dinner or for her to write. A few had even boldly asked her to kiss them, declaring hers might be the last lips they’d ever taste. She’d turned every one of them down, though as gently as possible, and took care not to dance with anyone more than once, lest they mistake her interest in them.

That afternoon, after a bit of a nap and a lot of fuss from Viv over exactly what dress to wear, they’d agreed on a cherry-red shirred dress in a silk Grace thought far too fancy and Viv insisted was exactly perfect. This was paired with matching pumps and a black purse with red piping. Her hair was styled in the latest fashion, courtesy of Viv, with reverse rolls curled back from her face.

Viv even managed to talk Grace into a bit of red lipstick, which admittedly did look becoming with the dress. It was the boldest outfit Grace had ever worn, and it made her feel as smooth as the silk of her last pair of new stockings.

“I think he may fall over when he sees you,” Viv said with a rise of her perfectly plucked brows.

Grace’s cheeks flushed at her reflection.

“Especially if you blush like that.” Viv clapped her hands with delight and they made their way downstairs.

Mrs. Weatherford, who was waiting in the entryway for them, put a palm to her chest. “Oh, Grace.”

Grace went hot all over, nervous that Mrs. Weatherford might declare it all too much. Certainly it was far more than Grace had ever done with so much red and in silk, no less.

“You’re so very beautiful, my dear.” Mrs. Weatherford shook her head and breathed out a long exhale. “If only your mum could see you now.”

Before Grace could reply, the doorbell chimed and she nearly stumbled off the last step.

She and George had agreed on an early dinner to ensure they couldn’t be interrupted by air raids and so she could still resume her shift that night as warden. A glance at her watch confirmed he was a minute early.

Mrs. Weatherford’s mouth formed an O of anticipation, and she scooted back from the door so Grace could draw it open. It was all Grace could do not to yank the handle, and instead pulled it far slower than she truly wanted.

On the other side was George. The man to whom she’d written letters for months detailing every bit of her life, with whom she had shared her innermost thoughts. The man who had introduced her to the world of reading.