I’m a guy taking a beautiful woman to dinner.
When we walk through the door, Franco, the owner, spots me immediately. His weathered face breaks into a genuine smile, the kind that comes from years of friendship rather than professional courtesy.
“Damon!” He crosses the restaurant in quick strides, pulling me into a firm embrace that smells like garlic and red wine. “It’s been too long, my friend.”
Marley stills beside me, a tension building inside her.
Fuck.
“Hey, Franco,” I say, returning the embrace before stepping back. “Good to see you.”
Franco’s sharp eyes shift to Marley, and his smile widens. “And who is this beautiful creature you’ve brought to my restaurant?”
“This is Marley,” I introduce, my hand finding the small of her back instinctively. “Marley, this is Franco Rosetti. He owns the place.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Marley says, extending her hand.
Franco takes it and brings it to his lips with old-world charm, making her laugh. “The pleasure is all mine,bellissima.Any woman who captures Damon’s attention must be extraordinary.” He winks at her, then turns to me. “Your usual table?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
As Franco leads us through the restaurant, past couples lost in quiet conversation and families sharing plates of pasta, I feel Marley’s curious gaze on me.
We’re seated at a corner booth, private and tucked away from the main dining area. Franco promises to send over wine and disappears with a knowing smile that makes me want to throttle him.
Marley settles into the booth across from me, and the moment we’re alone, she fixes me with those green eyes that seem to see right through every wall I’ve ever built.
“So,” she says slowly, folding her hands on the table. “He called you Damon.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know your name was Damon.” There’s no accusation in her voice, just curiosity. Maybe a hint of hurt that I haven’t shared something so basic.
“Most people call me Nitro,” I say carefully.
“Why Nitro?” She tilts her head, genuinely interested.
I lean back in the booth, considering how much to tell her because the truth sits heavy on my tongue.
It’s my road name from my MC, but I can’t go there yet.
Not when we’re just starting whatever this is, and I know that life, my MC life, will scare her away.
“It’s short for nitroglycerin,” I say instead, which isn’t a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
“I’ve always treated the open road like therapy. I love the rush of my motorcycle. Nitroglycerin is associated with speed, power, combustion… kind of like how I ride. It’s why I’m in the Uber. Not to speed, but to be out on the road. I love the feel of an engine. There’s something powerful in that. Something liberating.”
Her lips curve into a small smile. “That’s kind of badass.”
“Kind of?”
“Okay,reallybadass…” She pauses, her fingers playing with the edge of her napkin. “But your name is Damon.”
“Yeah, it is, Damon Lockhart,” I lie, observing her.
“It’s a good name,” she says, as if it’s a fact. No digging, no interrogation. Just acceptance.
