Don’t wear the cardigan.
Ivy:
No.
Sloane:
You’ll look better without it.
Ivy:
It’s already too exposed.
Sloane:
Ok. Just do you. Have fun, use protection, don't do anything I wouldn't do (which leaves you a LOT of options).
Heat floods my cheeks even though I'm alone. This isn't that kind of date. Declan said dinner. We’re talking and getting to know each other beyond stolen kisses and charged moments at the facility.
It’s the practice dating arrangement.
Except I’m not sure if I should call this dinner practice when we’ve already kissed and I’m feeling all jittery.
The intercom buzzes at exactly seven o'clock.
"It's me," Declan’s voice crackles through the speaker.
I buzz him up, then spend the next thirty seconds checking my reflection, smoothing my dress, wondering if I should have worn the maxi-dress hanging in my wardrobe.
The knock is soft. I open the door, and whatever words I'd prepared dissolve.
Declan stands in my hallway wearing dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that makes his green eyes even more intense. His dark hair is slightly damp, and the stubble on his jaw is carefully maintained. He looks effortlessly beautiful, making my stomach flip.
But it's the expression on his face that steals my breath. The way his eyes widen slightly when he sees me, tracking from my loose hair down to my heeled boots and back up. The slow smile that spreads across his face.
"You look beautiful."
"You clean up pretty well yourself," I reply.
"I try." He extends his hand. "Ready?"
I take it, his palm warm and slightly rough against mine, and let him lead me to the elevator.
The drive to the restaurant is quiet, with Declan stealing occasional glances at me. The small restaurant is tucked away at the corner of a quiet street. We walk in to an intimate setting with soft lighting and tables spaced far enough apart for actual conversation. No crowd of fans. No paparazzi lurking outside to take unsolicited photos.
Just us.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
The hostess leads us to a corner table, and Declan pulls out my chair before I can do it myself. The gesture is old-fashioned, sweet, and completely at odds with the cocky player who smirked at me naked in that therapy room.
"Wine?" he asks, scanning the menu.
"Red, if you're having some."
He orders a bottle of something I've never heard of. When the waiter pours, the wine smells like dark cherries and something earthy I can't quite name. I take a sip. It's smooth, complex, completely outside my usual box-wine budget.
"This is amazing," I say.
