“Today?” I straighten. “You want to go to dinner today?”
“Yes. See you later.” He winks before he backs away.
He walks through the door, and I wonder how I went from planning to put distance between us to agreeing to a dinner date.
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving silence rushing into the space he occupied.
It’s just dinner. One dinner date.
That’s it. Then no more. After tonight, I’ll go back to focusing.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe we both need closure. Whatever that means.
* * *
The moment I sink into the back seat of the Maybach, it feels like I’ve stepped into a different world.
Everything is too smooth. Too luxurious.
It’s six forty-five. I did some overtime to finish up the files I’d been sorting through, but the driver was waiting for me at the office door the moment I signed out of my computer.
It’s nice, but I’m having thatAlice in Wonderlandfeeling again, still wandering down the dark rabbit hole, trying to feel my way through.
Nothing about this feels like my life.
Men like Levi Vale don’t usually show up in my world. And women like me definitely don’t end up climbing into Maybachs on a Wednesday night.
The city passes by in an array of colors, glowing in the waning sunlight. I stare through the window watching it all, wondering what this dinner date is going to be like.
We get stuck in a little traffic but are eventually moving again. Half an hour later, the car glides to a stop outside a restaurant in the West Village.
Casa Virelli. Italian.
The building is gorgeous and almost hidden like a secret place you only know if you know.
The driver gets out and opens the door for me, then leads me inside the restaurant.
We walk into soft amber light and the scent of herbs and fruity wine.
Low conversation drifts through the restaurant while glasses clink somewhere deeper inside. Despite the elegance, there’s a coziness about the place. It’s almost intimate. Like the restaurant was designed for secrets and stolen touches.
The maître d’ appears at the reception desk and smiles warmly like he’s been expecting me.
“Welcome to Casa Virelli,” he says in a hearty voice. “Follow me.”
“Thank you.”
Before I go, I bid a quick thanks to the driver, who gives me a polite nod, then I follow the maître d’.
As he leads me past the main dining area, my pulse picks up. So do my thoughts. I don’t know what to expect from this dinner date.
What do you do when your one-night stand asks you out? Can I even call him that anymore? Though technically, he is. Our situation is just a little…complicatedbecause we work together. And then there’s me with my reservations.
The tables grow fewer and the area becomes more secluded.
Tucked behind a low partition, framed by dim lighting, is a lone table. Levi Vale sits there, looking like he stepped straight out of something unreal. Dressed in full black in a button-down shirt that shows off his solid biceps, he makes everything else in the room feel small and irrelevant.
The moment his gaze meets mine, butterflies take flight in my stomach.
