Fifteen minutes later, we turned into Belltown. I didn’t spend much time here, but I’d always liked it. Trendy, a little artsy. Rows of brick buildings lined the narrow streets, warm light spilling from boutique windows and small restaurants with chalkboard menus. Cozy, yet somehow still refined.
Nothing like the sleek, steel world he occupied.
He pulled to the curb in front of a narrow storefront tucked between a record shop and an old bookstore. A brass sign hung above the door, Bastian’s Bistro. Its letters are worn smooth by years of rain. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of amber lighting and the flicker of candles on polished wood tables.
It wasn’t what I expected. Not even close.
Canlis, Six Seven, Spinasse—those fit the version of him I knew.
Not… this.
I’d pictured Sebastian Reid surrounded by glass walls and skyline views, sipping something expensive while discussing breaches and contracts—not stepping out onto the sidewalk in front of a cozy bistro with fogged windows and a flickering neon Open sign that buzzed weakly against the drizzle.
A single valet stand sat out front, manned by an older gentleman in a wool cap. He brightened the second we pulled up.
“Evening, Mr. Reid,” he said as Sebastian rounded the front of the car. “Good to see you again.”
Sebastian handed the valet the keys with a nod, and reached for my door. He opened it and offered his hand before I could reach for the handle myself, still trying to process what was happening. Rain misted against my face as I stepped out, the air rich with the scent of garlic and baked bread drifting from the open door ahead.
“Thank you, Arthur,” he said, his tone softer than I’d ever heard it at the office.
I blinked.
Arthur.
Mr. Reid didn’t do first names. Not with staff. Not with anyone. The valet smiled at me warmly before heading to the driver’s side, like this was routine—like he’d known Sebastian for years.
Arthur tipped his head and smiled at me as he headed to the driver’s side of the car.
Inside, the space was small. Ten, maybe twelve tables, all wooden and charmingly mismatched. String lights hung along the exposed beams, their glow catching on old framed photos. Someone laughed near the kitchen.
It wasn’t high-end. It wasn’t even close.
And that was what made it startling.
This place didn’t match the sharp, polished world Sebastian Reid lived in. Nothing about Bastian’s—the creaking floorboards, the fogged windows, the scent of rosemary and real butter—fit the image I’d built of him.
Yet somehow… it suited him in a way I couldn’t explain.
I shook my head. This wasn’t a date. He probably didn’t want to be seen with me somewhere recognizable. That had to be why we were here.
He nodded once, and without glancing at me, placed a hand at the small of my back to guide me forward. The gesture was simple, professional even, but it sent a ripple through me all the same.
I didn’t understand this version of him—the man who came to a cozy little bistro where the lights were warm and the floors creaked, who spoke gently to the valet and tipped his head in thanks. It didn’t fit. And yet, somehow, it did.
The waitress led us to the corner booth in the back. Not quite hidden but removed from the other enough to make everything fade into the background.
A bottle of wine already waited for us on the table, two glasses sitting neatly side by side.
I frowned. His usual table? How often did he come here? Apparently often enough to have a preference and for the staff to know it.
He thanked her, using her first name but I hadn’t noticed a name tag. She smiled warmly before disappearing toward the kitchen and returning a moment later with a basket of bread and a small dish of olive oil dusted with cracked pepper.
My stomach growled.
Loudly.
Great.
