And I forget how to breathe.
The red dress. Heels that make her legs look endless. Hair curled and down around her shoulders. Makeup that's subtle but makes her eyes look darker, more intense.
She's beautiful. Not in a trying-too-hard way or a look-at-me way. Just... beautiful. Confident. Real.
"You're staring," she says when she reaches the car.
"You're stunning."
"It's the dress."
"It's you. The dress is just lucky to be involved." She rolls her eyes at my reply, but she's smiling. I open her door, then circle to my side.
"Where are we going?" she asks as I pull out.
"Marcello's. Italian place downtown. Not too stuffy, but nice enough for Valentine's Eve."
"You planned ahead." She asks in surprise.
"I've been planning this for a week."
"A week? Sebastian, it's just dinner."
"It's not just dinner. It's our second-to-last date. Our second-to-last chance before the contract ends and you decide if I'm worth keeping around." I glance at her. "I want it to be perfect."
"Nothing's perfect." Now her voice goes low, and I hate it.
"Then I want it to be real. And good. And memorable for the right reasons."
She's quiet for the rest of the drive. I wonder if I've said too much, been too honest. But then her hand finds mine on the center console, and I know I said exactly the right thing.
Marcello's is busy, Valentine's Eve tends to be, but we have a reservation. The hostess seats us at a corner table with soft lighting and enough privacy that we can actually hear each other talk.
"This is nice," Isla admits, looking around. "Not as intimidating as I thought."
"You were intimidated?"
"I've never been to a place like this. The nicest restaurant I've ever been to was an Olive Garden for my sister's birthday three years ago."
The admission hits me hard. Reminds me yet again of the massive gap between our worlds.
"Well, now you have and you belong here just as much as anyone else." I open my menu. "Order whatever you want. Don't even look at the prices."
"Sebastian—"
"I'm serious. This is my treat. Let me do this."
She relents, and we order. The food is excellent, some pasta dish for her, steak for me and the conversation flows easily. We talk about everything, her plans after graduation, my uncertain future with Thornhill Industries, books we love, movies we like.
It's easy. Natural. Like we've been doing this for years.
Halfway through dinner, she sets down her fork and looks at me seriously.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"What happens if your father doesn't approve? Of me, of us, of whatever this becomes after the contract?"
