“This is Puss Puss,” Dallen says fondly. She drops to her knees without hesitation, kisses the top of her cat’s head, and scratches behind her ears. “She thinks she’s in charge.”
Puss Puss blinks at me, unimpressed.
“Fair,” I say.
Dallen laughs, rising. “I’m just going to change. Make yourself comfortable.”
She disappears down the hall, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and something else—home. I watch her walk away, wanting her more with every second I’m in her presence. I shouldn’t want her as much as I do. She’s sweet and seems far too intelligent to date a Moretti, but still, I can’t shift my feet to leave. To let her go and not take a chance on a man who could possibly never give her the safety she deserves. Not with our history and enemies. There was always a risk.
I wander into the lounge, hands in my pockets, taking in the space slowly. A bookshelf filled with dog-eared novels and framed photos catches my attention. Her family. Smiling faces. Holiday snapshots. A younger Dallen and an older boy between two people I assume are her parents, her grin wide and unguarded. There’s love there. Stability. The kind of roots I’ve never had.
I’m studying a beach photo of her when footsteps sound. I turn, taking a steadying breath.
Dallen stands, transformed yet still herself. A soft floral dress flatters her; a light jacket over her shoulders adds elegance. Hair, loose and framing her face, makes my chest tighten. Flat shoes—sensible. Perfect.
She shifts, suddenly shy under my stare. “Too much or not enough?”
I cross the distance between us in two strides, stopping just short of touching her. “No,” I say quietly. “You look…beautiful.”
Color blooms in her cheeks, her smile slow and genuine. “Ready for dinner?” she asks.
I nod, offering my arm. “Very.”
We head back out together, the door closing softly behind us, and for the first time in a long while, I find myself looking forward to what comes next.
The restaurant Delizioso is the kind of place that makes you feel like you should lower your voice the second you step inside—but as the owner, I know it’s the perfect location for a first date. I have my own table, always available, no matter when I turn up. Dark wood. White tablecloths. Low, golden light that catches on the rim of wine glasses and turns everything a little softer. The host greets me by name, which is always a convenient perk of being one of the bosses.
The soft clatter of cutlery blends with low conversation. Dallen walks in beside me, and I keep my hand at the small of her back as we’re led through the dining room. I take in who’s dining already, not seeing anyone of interest or anyone who shouldn’t be here.
“Is it terrible that I’m impressed?” she murmurs, looking about, pleasure on her features as she takes in the restaurant. “I’ve wanted to eat here for some time, but the place is booked out like a year in advance.”
I glance at her, amused. “I aim to please.”
“Clearly,” she says, like it’s the most obvious statement in the world.
A smile tugs at my mouth. “You don’t know me well enough to be impressed yet.”
Her eyes flick up at me, daring. “I know enough.”
That hits lower than it should. Does she mean from our one-night stand, or has she tried to find more about me? I didn’t give her my surname. A Google search for the Moretti name yields far too much information for any potential partner to absorb after a first meeting. My family needed to be introduced gradually, over time…not right away.
We sit. A waiter glides over like he’s got a stick along his spine and sets water down, offers the menu, and goes through the suggestions for this evening’s meals before giving us some privacy to decide.
Dallen opens her menu, brows lifting as she reads what’s available. “Okay, I officially feel like I should’ve worn something fancier.”
“You look perfect,” I say without thinking. And she does—good enough for this restaurant or any other. I drink in the sight of her, wanting her with a need that’s foreign to me. I ache to kiss her, to lean across the small distance that separates us and merely kiss her sweet lips. The thought sweeps through me, and I don’t know who the fuck I am when I’m around her.
She pauses. Looks up. Something soft flickers across her face, like she’s deciding whether to accept the compliment or tease me for it.
“Careful,” she says. “If you keep talking like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re a nice guy.”
I lean back in my chair, letting my gaze linger. “And if I am?” Which, of course, is true to a point. I am a nice guy. I work hard, I play by the rules most of the time at work and in my family, but there is a line. Like all my brothers, we are perfectly content untilsomeone crosses that line, and then all bets are off. I know I have it in me—the revenge, the fury that comes forth if something I care about is threatened.
“Then I’ll have to reevaluate my whole opinion of men who do one-night stands. Perhaps there’s absolution for them after all. So far, you’re giving those guys a good name.”
I laugh under my breath. “If I recall, I don’t believe I forced you into my car.”
“No, you didn’t,” she says immediately. “But you did use your sexy-as-hell face to tempt me to misbehave in a way that I wouldn’t normally. In a way that I never have before.”
