Chapter 6: The First Date
The restaurant was called Nido, and it felt like one—a warm, intimate nest of dim light and rich shadows. Candlelight flickered in ruby-colored glasses, casting a soft glow over the polished wood and Nate’s hands as he unfolded his napkin. His knuckles, she noticed, were slightly scraped, a remnant from a weights session earlier that day. The contrast between that detail and the soft linen, the delicate stem of her wine glass, made something flutter low in her stomach.
“You’re staring at my hands,” he said, without looking up.A small smile played on his lips.
“I’m staring at you paying seventy dollars for a bottle of wine,” she deflected, taking a sip.It was smooth, velvety. “Aren’t you still on a trainer’s salary?”
He finally met her eyes, the candlelight catching the gold flecks. “I’ve been saving for this dinner for a while. Consider it an investment.”
“In what?”
“In making sure you don’t order the chicken,” he deadpanned, and she laughed, the sound mingling with the soft clink of cutlery and the low murmur of other conversations. The air smelled of garlic and oregano, of warmth and something faintly floral.The conversation was easy, disarmingly so. They talked about Maya’s dramatic grading spree, about a client of Jenny’s who wanted a logo that “screamed luxury but whispered affordability.” Nate recounted a story about a client who tried to do squats wearing flip-flops.It was normal.It was them. Yet everything was underscored by a new, thrilling current—the brush of his foot against hers under the table, the way his gaze lingered on her mouth when she took a bite of bruschetta.That’s when the waiter came. His name was Luca, according to the scripted cursive on his apron. He was handsome in a polished, effortless way, with a smile that seemed to work independently of his eyes.
“Another pour for the signora?” he asked, reaching for the wine bottle before Nate could. His fingers grazed Jenny’s glass unnecessarily.“I’m good, thanks,” Jenny said, offering a polite smile.
“The signora has exceptional taste in wine,” Luca continued, leaning in slightly to address Nate, though his attention snapped back to Jenny. “And in company, it seems.”
It was a harmless comment, the kind of practiced flattery meant to increase tips. But Jenny felt the atmosphere at their table shift, solidify.Nate didn’t look at Luca. He looked at the man’s hand, still resting near the bottle, then slowly reached out and covered Jenny’s hand where it lay on the tablecloth.His palm was warm, his grip firm but not tight.A declaration, not a request.
“She does,” Nate said, his voice lower than it had been a moment ago. It wasn’t a growl, but it had edges. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
Luca’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He gave a shallow nod and retreated.Nate didn’t move his hand. He ran his thumb over Jenny’s knuckles, a slow, deliberate stroke. The air between them crackled, no longer with easy banter, but with something heavier, more potent.“You okay?” Jenny asked softly.
“I’m fine,” he said, but his jaw was tight.He took a deliberate sip of water. “I just don’t like his… tone.”
“It’s his job, Nate. He probably says that to every woman with a date.”
“I know.” He exhaled, finally looking at her.The intensity in his eyes was unsettling, a banked fire. “It’s not rational.I know it’s not. But seeing him look at you like that, after… after everything. After finally being allowed to look at you like that myself.” He shook his head, as if clearing it.“Forget it. Tell me more about the whispering logo.”
He was trying, she could see him trying, to reel it in. To be the easygoing guy from ten minutes ago.But the thread had been pulled. The rest of the meal was delicious, the conversation still flowing, but the undercurrent remained.A low, humming tension. Every time Luca passed their table, Nate’s posture imperceptibly straightened, his gaze tracking the man’s movement until he was gone.It should have annoyed her. This was the old Nate, the possessive one she’d found so frustrating. But now, understanding the source, feeling the heat of his hand on hers, it elicited a different response—a treacherous, visceral thrill.
Later, walking through the cool night air to her car, the silence between them was thick, charged. He’d paid the bill without letting her see it, his hand briefly squeezing her shoulder when she protested. His touch, through the fabric of her jacket, felt like a brand.
At her car, she fumbled for her keys in her purse.The street was quiet, lit by pools of orange light from vintage-style lampposts.
“Jenny,” he said, his voice quiet.She looked up. “Yeah?”
In one fluid motion, he closed the distance. His hands came up to cradle her face, his body crowding her gently against the cool metal of the car door.There was no hesitation, no slow approach. His mouth found hers, and this kiss was nothing like the soft, questioning one in Maya’s hallway.
This was deep, claiming, full of the tension that had simmered through dinner. It was heat and demand and a faint, desperate edge. One hand slid from her cheek, down her neck, under the hem of her jacket. His palm, large and warm, settled firmly on the small of her back, pressing her into him. She could feel every hard line of his body, the contrast both shocking and intoxicating. Her keys fell into her purse with a dull jingle, her own hands coming up to grip the front of his shirt, holding on as the world tilted.
When he finally broke away, they were both breathing hard. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes dark pools in the shadowed light. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, a stark contrast to the ferocity of the kiss.
“I’m not sharing,” he murmured, his voice rough, the words brushing her kiss-swollen lips. It wasn’t a threat to the world; it was a confession to her.A raw, unfiltered truth.She believed him. The knowledge was a lightning strike, terrifying and exhilarating.She traced the line of his jaw, her fingers trembling slightly. “Who said,” she whispered, her own voice unsteady, “there was anything to share?”
A shudder went through him.He kissed her again, slower this time, a seal on the promise. When he stepped back, the night air felt ten degrees colder.
“Drive safe,” he said, his voice back under control, but his eyes still burned.She nodded, unable to form words. She slid into the driver’s seat, her hands unsteady on the wheel. As she pulled away, she saw him in the rearview mirror, standing under the lamppost, watching her until she turned the corner and disappeared. The scent of his cologne, sharp and clean, clung to her jacket, to her skin.It was no longer trying to overpower something. It was simply claiming its space.