“No,” he says, low and pleased. “It’s good though. I promise.”
A hostess greets us, and when she leads us to a corner table by the window, I catch the faintest whiff of his cologne—clean cedar, spice, and something distinctly him.
The tension between us hums like static.
He orders sake for both of us.
I don’t argue.
By the time our ramen arrives, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m relaxed.
Until he looks at me—really looks at me—and says, “So, tell me, Marigold. Why does someone like you need an app to find a date?”
I snort. “Someone like me?”
He shrugs, sipping his drink. “Beautiful. Smart. Successful. Sassy as hell. Doesn’t exactly scream needs dating assistance.”
My cheeks heat.
“Well, maybe I was just curious,” I reply. “Or maybe the universe decided to have a little fun.”
“Maybe it decided to mess with me,” he mutters.
“Mess with you? You’re the one who came here to dump me.”
He winces, sets his glass down. “About that,” he says.
“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow.
He leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping low enough to send a shiver down my spine.
“Let’s just say I’m reconsidering.”
My heart does this weird stutter thing, like it can’t decide if it wants to stop or sprint straight out of my chest.
“Reconsidering?” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
His smile is lazy. Dangerous. The kind that could melt chocolate and common sense at the same time.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, eyes locked on mine. “Because the food’s good.”
He pauses, his gaze flicking—no, lingering—on my mouth.
“And I think the company might be even better.”
The world goes very still.
The soft glow of lantern light turns everything gold. Snow drifts lazily outside the window.
Somewhere, a piano recording starts playing a quiet jazz version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
And there’s this impossible, undeniable pull between us.
I swallow hard, trying to remember how words work.
“Sorry,” I say, forcing a wobbly smile. “But that ship might’ve already sailed, Buddy.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
