Part 6: The Dinner Date

By the time I got home, it was nearly five-thirty.

The second the door shut behind me, I broke into the kind of grin that only happens after something good—really good—goes down.

Not just a smile. A full-body grin. The kind that takes over your face and makes you feel a little high.

I giggled. Like, actually giggled.

Because I’d been holding it in all afternoon, trying to focus, trying not to drift off into full-blown blushy daydream territory. But now? Shoes off, alone in my apartment, heart still thudding?

There was no stopping it.

That kiss was all I could think about. And the way he’d said it, just before it happened.

Fuck it.

God.

It had knocked the air clean out of me. Still did. Even hours later, I was floating. I barely got anything done at the office afterward, but I didn’t care.

Because tonight ... was our first real date.

By six, I was in the shower—longer than usual, hotter than usual, with more ... attention to detail. The shave-everywhere, exfoliate-everything kind. I wasn’t about to show up to dinner with Mr. Maddox looking like some half-done, half-slept twink.

I pulled on my best navy polo, snug in the sleeves, fitted at the waist. Gray tailored trousers. Black dress shoes that made me feel like I had a 401k and a personal assistant. Belt cinched tight, hair styled to hell, cologne I only wore for fantasy nights.

And this? This was that.

At 7:15, I was pacing in the living room, nerves fluttering, leg bouncing like a jackhammer. I hadn’t eaten all day—not because I forgot, but because my stomach refused to let me.

Then my phone chimed.

MR. Maddox: I’m outside. Take your time.

My breath caught. I grabbed my keys, jacket, and practically ran out the door.

And when I stepped outside?

Yeah.

He was leaning back against the hood of his black sedan like some kind of slow-motion daydream. Hands in his pockets, maroon shirt tucked into slim black jeans, belt drawing my eye down way too easily.

And the shoes—clean, polished, just shiny enough to make you look twice.

He looked up the moment he saw me. That little smirk. Chin tilted. Eyes tracing every inch of me.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm. “You look good.”

I smiled, trying not to combust on the sidewalk. “Hey. So do you.”

He pushed off the car, walked around to the passenger side.

“Let me,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when he opened the door—leaned in slightly to gesture me in—that’s when I caught it.

Not his usual cologne. Something darker. Warmer. Leather, spice, a little bit of sweetness beneath it. Like bourbon left breathing on a marble bar top.

It hit me square in the chest.

I barely remembered how to sit down.

He shut the door behind me, walked around, and got in.

The engine purred. His hand shifted to the wheel. And then his eyes were on me again—slow, deliberate, taking his time.

“You really clean up well,” he said, letting that last word hang a second longer.

I laughed, shifting in my seat. “Look who’s talking. You’re the one who looks like a GQ cover.”

He let out a soft breath, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

“I’ve got us a reservation at Monroe.”

My eyes widened. “Wait—Monroe Monroe?”

He gave a small nod, already turning onto the main road.

“Jesus. That’s ... kind of fancy.”

He glanced at me sideways.

“You’re worth it.”

My heart might’ve stopped for a second.

I didn’t answer. Just swallowed and stared ahead, feeling way too warm for how cold it was outside.

The rest of the drive was quiet—but not awkward. It felt ... steady. Comfortable. Like both of us were waiting for something. Letting the air between us fill with whatever this was.

A few minutes later, we pulled up to a sleek glass building draped in soft string lights. The valet took the keys, and just like that, we were inside.

The rooftop restaurant looked like something out of a dream. Jazz playing overhead. A skyline glittering in every direction. Our table tucked in a corner lit by candlelight, the city glowing behind us like we were inside a snow globe.