I studied him—the stubborn tilt of his jaw, the conviction in his voice—ready to press him further when his face suddenly brightened at something behind me.
Ava appeared then—the woman who’d met me in the lobby—balancing two heaping slices of cake like she carried small,decadent flags of truce. Candlelight caught the dark ganache and made it gleam as if it were polished on purpose.
“Chocolate cake with dark chocolate ganache,” she announced, setting a plate before each of us. “A world-famous, secret family recipe.”
I raised a brow. “World-famous, huh?”
“She’s not wrong.” He shrugged, eyes glued to the dessert in front of him. “Ava made this for my birthday five years ago. I’ve been thinking about it since.”
Ava shot him a look—part flattered, part conspiratorial. “You’re only saying that because you ate half the cake yourself.”
“I regret nothing,” he returned with mock solemnity.
Ava gave me a wink. “He asked for something sweet for his sweet.” Teasing dripped from every word.
Damien’s head snapped to her, mortified. “That is not what I said.”
“Well, that’s what I heard.” She shrugged, amusement in every line of her face.
Laughter caught me before I could stop it—bright and surprised. Damien’s horrified, flapping mouth only made me laugh harder. Ava reached over and squeezed my arm, and the contact was unexpectedly comforting, easy as someone tucking a blanket around you in winter.
“I hope you like it,” she said, and drifted back inside like a receding tide.
“She’s been with me seven years,” he explained, still gathering his composure. “I hired her as an assistant—back when she actually assisted. Now she does whatever she pleases and still expects direct deposit.” A sigh. “And I can’t fire her, because my mother would never forgive me. They became fast friends. Apparently it gives her the confidence to embarrass me.”
He shot the last words over his shoulder.
A wicked grin was her only response.
“It’s endearing,” I found myself saying, still smiling. “It reminds me of my chef, Susan—she keeps me humble, too.”
His relief was almost visible: a loosening around his mouth, shoulders dropping an inch. “Good.” A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Saves me the trouble of firing her.”
I laughed, letting the sound settle between us. A small balm against the remaining aches.
We ate in silence for a while. The sharp edges of the night blurred beneath sugar and wine. He leaned over his plate, brow furrowed in comical concentration as he chased the last streak of ganache like it mattered.
When the final bites were gone and only the spun-sugar garnish remained like fragile glass crowns on our plates, he set his fork aside and reached for his napkin. A small, tired sigh escaped him.
“It’s getting late.” His voice dropped, threaded with something that sounded like disappointment.
It was. The city had quieted; the rush and hum of traffic had fallen away until the terrace felt suspended above it all. Skyscrapers once glittering with light now stood dark and still against the skyline.
“Unfortunately,” I said, pulling my phone from my purse. “I’ll message my driver.”
He nodded once, as I hit send on the message, but neither of us moved. The space between us thrummed—alive and thick with everything unspoken.
His gaze fell to my lips.
A slow, electric heat unfurled beneath my skin, winding low in my belly, pulsing in places I didn’t want to acknowledge. The silence grew tighter, pulled closer, until I could hear my own pulse over the sleeping hum of the city.
Then he rose to stand beside me, hand extended, firm and sure, waiting to draw me to my feet.
I slipped my fingers into his. The contact was nothing more than skin on skin, but it burned. A sharp current slid up my arm, warmth coiling beneath my ribs until air caught in my throat. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
His eyes swept over me. “You really are breathtaking. I’m a lucky man to have shared dinner with you.”
My lips parted, but no words came. I couldn’t have spoken if I’d tried.
