“That’s vague,” she says with a soft laugh.
“Trust me,moya.” I lift my hand and brush a stray strand of hair back from her cheek, the touch brief but intentional.
A faint warmth rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns her attention to the window, watching the city slide past in a blur of lights and movement. After a moment, she begins to hum softly under her breath. I use the silence to study her profile, aware of the tension she carries in her shoulders and the way her fingers drum against her thigh in a rhythm that suggests anxiety more than impatience.
She's nervous. Still trying to decide if accepting this invitation was wise or reckless. I don't blame her for the uncertainty.
The restaurant is in Dilworth, tucked away on a quiet street lined with historic homes and century-old trees. The exterior is unassuming, marked only by a small brass plaque beside the door. Inside, the space is intimate and warmly lit, with exposed brick walls and tables positioned far enough apart to ensure privacy. The hostess greets me by name and leads us to a corner table near the fireplace, where the heat pushes back against the cold that followed us inside.
The hostess takes Rowan’s coat, and as she steps forward, the navy-blue dress skims her frame, understated and undeniably attractive. I note it without remark as she lowers herself into the chair. She glances around the room, taking in the elegance with an expression that hovers between appreciation and discomfort.
“This is...” She trails off, searching for the right word.
“Too much?” I offer.
“Different,” she finishes. “I'm not used to places like this.”
“You should be.” I meet her eyes, holding the moment without elaboration.
Her gaze snaps back to me, surprise flashing across her face. “Why?”
“Because you deserve it.”
The statement catches her off guard, and she looks away quickly, her fingers finding the edge of the linen napkin folded beside her plate. “You don't know me well enough to make that assessment.”
“I know enough.”
The server arrives before she can respond, presenting menus and reciting specials. Rowan scans hers quickly, her brow furrowing as she takes in the options. When the server asks about drinks, I order wine without consulting her, choosing a bottle I know will pair well with whatever she selects.
She doesn't protest, but I notice the way her jaw tightens slightly at the presumption.
“If you don't like it, I'll order you whatever you prefer,” I tell her once the server leaves.
“It's fine,” she replies, though her tone suggests otherwise.
“Rowan.”
She looks up, meeting my eyes with reluctant honesty. “I'm not used to people making decisions for me.”
“Noted.” I lean back slightly, creating space. “Next time, you order first.”
“Next time?”
“Yes.”
Her lips part as though to argue, but she closes them again without speaking. Instead, she returns her attention to the menu, her fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the table that tells me she's thinking faster than she's willing to admit.
When the server returns with the wine, Rowan accepts the glass with a quiet thank you. She takes a careful sip, her expression softening slightly as she takes in the flavor.
“It's good,” she admits.
“I'm glad.” I note the way her mouth curves as she lowers the glass, my focus lingering there before moving on.
We order dinner, and the conversation begins to flow more naturally as the wine loosens the edges of her tension. She asks about the restaurant, about how I found it, and I explain that it's owned by a former associate who values discretion as much as quality. She nods, absorbing the information without pressing for details I'm not ready to share.
“You mentioned your father built Sovarin’s reputation,” she begins after a pause. “What is he like?”
The question pushes further than she realizes. I consider my response carefully, not searching for words, but choosing which ones to allow.
