11
LILA
Icheck my watch for the fifth time in three minutes, clutching my purse like it might try to escape. Luciano's glows across the street—all warm light and elegant facade—looking about ten times fancier than I remembered from Tessa's Instagram stories.
"I think I'm going to throw up," I mutter, tugging at the hem of the green silk dress.
"You look amazing," Tessa assures me, perfect as always in her cashmere sweater. "The dress is working overtime for you."
"It's not the dress I'm worried about." I gesture at the restaurant. "Look at this place! There are actual crystal chandeliers in there. I bet they charge you just for looking at the menu."
Tessa rolls her eyes. "It's nice, not extortionate. Besides, he's the one who asked you out."
"Yeah, but I insisted on picking the place. What if it's too expensive for him?"
"It's not that expensive, Lila. Promise. And if he can't afford this… well, what has he been doing for the last 30 years?" Shepauses. "Okay, remember, I'm coming in five minutes after you. I'll sit at the bar where I can see your table. If you need rescuing, just touch your ear three times."
"Or I could text you 'help' like a normal person."
"Where's the fun in that? Besides, what if he takes your phone? Serial killers are crafty."
"You're not helping." My stomach knots tighter. A couple enters Luciano's—the woman in a sleek black dress, the man confidently handing his keys to the valet. They look like they belong. I decidedly do not.
"Seriously though," Tessa says, her voice softening. "You deserve this. A nice dinner, some adult conversation that doesn't involve asking if they want another round."
"I have adult conversations," I protest weakly.
"Your last date was with that film student who spent two hours explaining why The Godfather is secretly a comedy."
"Fair point." I check my watch again. 7:27. Three minutes until I'm supposed to be inside. "What if?—"
"Nope." Tessa spins me toward the restaurant and gives me a gentle shove. "No more what-ifs. Go get your hot detective. And remember?—"
"Touch my ear three times if I need extraction," I finish for her. "Or if he tries to mansplain The Godfather to me."
"Thatta girl."
I take one last look at her—my safety net—and step off the curb. My heels click against the pavement, the sound echoing my pounding heart. As I cross the street, I spot him through the window, already seated at a corner table. He's wearing a crisp navy button-down that stretches across his shoulders, making my mouth go dry.
For a second, I consider turning around and sprinting back to my tiny apartment. But then Dane looks up, his eyes finding mine through the glass, and something in his gaze locks me inplace. He smiles—just a small quirk of his lips—and suddenly my feet are moving again.
I push through the door, the warm air scented with garlic and wine enveloping me. The hostess raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.
"I'm meeting someone," I say, gesturing vaguely toward Dane. "He's already here."
"Of course." She smiles politely. "Right this way, miss."
As I follow her between tables of people who look like they have investment portfolios and summer homes, I silently curse Tessa for talking me into this place. Dane probably thinks I'm high-maintenance now. Great first impression, Lila. Real smooth.
Here goes nothing.
The hostess steps aside, gesturing to our table, and I'm suddenly face-to-face with Dane Wolfe. He rises in one fluid motion, all six-plus feet of him unfolding like some predatory origami. Up close, he's even more intimidating—those eyes catching the candlelight, shoulders filling out his shirt in ways that should be illegal.
"Lila," he says, my name coming out like gravel wrapped in silk.
"Hi," I manage, clutching my purse like it's a life preserver. Real eloquent, Marks. Four years of journalism school and that's what you come up with?
Before I can embarrass myself further, he moves around the table and pulls out my chair. The gesture catches me off guard—it's old-fashioned in a way that makes my chest do weird things.
