“Go on,” he urged gently, giving my hands a little squeeze.
“I got stood up a lot,” I said, voice shrinking. “Guys always said they were intimidated by me.”
He jerked his head back like I’d slapped him. “Then fuck them.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Fuck those guys—well, boys,” he corrected, disgust curling his lip. “You weren’t too much. They were too little. And that difference? That’s what scared them off. Not you.”
My heart thudded once, hard enough to steal my breath. “I don’t understand.” My voice barely held.
His hold tightened. “You are a masterpiece Van Gogh couldn’t even dream of. You’re sharp, and brilliant, and loyal, and funny—”
I smacked his shoulder, heat rushing up my neck. “Stop.”
But my eyes stung—a betrayal of how badly I needed to hear that and how much I hated needing it.
He grinned, delight breaking across his face like sunrise over water. “Not a chance.”
Chapter 22
***
Emma
“Good evening,” a young man said as he stepped into the glow of the fairy lights. He carried two silver-covered plates, steam already curling from the edges.
“Thank you, Maverick,” Damien said as the man placed one dish before me.
“My pleasure,” he replied, offering a quick nod before retreating into the night.
Damien rose from where he was kneeling at my feet, candlelight sliding over the strong lines of his face. With deliberate grace, he took hold of the handle and lifted the cover with a mock flourish. “My lady.”
Sweet spice rolled across the terrace as steam curled into the deepening night, carrying the scent of orange glaze, ginger, and roasted garlic. The scent wrapped around us, heady and rich.
“God, this looks incredible.” The words left me before I could stop them, admiring the spread before me—glossy chicken, delicate dumplings, a scatter of herbs like confetti.
“I’ll pass your compliments to the chef.” He uncovered his own plate with equal ceremony. “They’ve been at it for hours.”
My brows lifted, teasing. “Hours, huh?” I hummed, spearing a bite of chicken. A smirk curved my lips. “So tell me,” I said,leaning forward, the candlelight catching on the rim of my glass. “What was the plan if I didn’t come?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I was going to cry in a bathtub of orange chicken and whiskey.” He shrugged. “Pathetic, sure—but at least it would’ve been a delicious kind of misery.”
A small laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. “That does sound depressing.”
“Well,” he said around a bite of dumpling, “it’s not like I didn’t dig the grave myself.”
I arched a brow, slicing through my own dumpling. The delectable broth bled into the glaze of the chicken, tangling together like a Chinese-spiced murder scene—in the best possible way.
“That is very true,” I said. Then, quieter: “I’m still not ready to forgive you.”
“I don’t expect you to.” His tone dropped. “Not yet.”
For a moment, the world stilled. The candlelight flickered across his face—remorse and affection woven together in the same moment. Lips still red from the kiss we’d shared.
Then he cleared his throat, mischief slipping back in. “But—” He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “That doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying to bribe you with dumplings.”
I choked on a laugh, reaching for my wine. “What makes you think I won’t up the stakes next time?”
