Minutes later, Marina’s sign appeared, warm light spilling from the windows, pooling across the pavement as the car slowed to a stop. I exhaled once, settling myself, then stepped out and walked toward the entrance.
The smell hit first—garlic, basil, wine, bread. Low jazz drifted beneath candlelight. Rough brick walls and shelves lined with old bottles. Small tables tucked into alcoves like secrets.
The hostess approached. “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, under Read. Party of two.”
“Right this way.”
I followed her through the tangle of the room, past figures pressed close in conversation, into a corner where candles flickered in their brackets.
A small bouquet waited on the table—jasmine and gardenia, tied with silver ribbon. A tiny handwritten note folded in front.For you.
I traced a petal, savoring the soft scent.
A waiter approached, order book in hand. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“A glass of pinot noir, please. And water.”
“Of course,” he said with a dip of his chin. “I’ll be right back.”
When he left, I checked my phone.
Two minutes.
I smoothed a curl behind my ear, dabbed at my lip color, patted away the damp sheen at my temple.
He’s going to hate you.
The waiter returned moments later, setting the wine and water before me. I took a steadying sip.
Conversation carried faintly from the front of the alcove—the hostess greeting someone, followed by a deep male timbre.
Footsteps belonging to long measured strides approached. My spine straightened on instinct, breath lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.
Through the greenery, I caught the shape of a tall figure in a dark suit. Broad shoulders. Familiar posture.
Too familiar.
No. You’re imagining it.
Another stride. Another flicker of recognition.
He turned the corner.
Candlelight caught his profile. My lungs locked. Surprise shattered across his features and disappeared just as fast, leaving a small, guilty curve at his mouth.
“Hello, Emma.”
Chapter 9
***
My mouth opened but nothing came out—no sound, no thought, just the impossible truth standing three feet away from me.
Damien Holt.
Falkirk’s CEO. The man himself.
