Chapter 35: The Dinner Date
The shirt on her pillow was a secret. For two days, Aurora slept with it, the fabric slowly losing his direct scent and absorbing hers, creating a new, hybrid smell that she found she liked even more. It was proof. He had been here. He was coming back.
Friday arrived with a knot of anxiety in her stomach that had nothing to do with biology and everything to do with the sheer, terrifying prospect of being looked at. She changed her outfit four times before settling on a simple, sleeveless floral dress that felt like her. She brushed her hair until it shone, her hands trembling slightly.
The doorbell rang at seven exactly.
She opened the door, and the air left her lungs. He was clean. So clean. The shadow of stubble was gone, his jaw smooth and sharp. He wore a dark button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the intricate ink that swirled over his forearms. The shirt stretched taut across his chest and shoulders, and the casual elegance of it, so different from his ratty tee or work clothes, made him seem both more approachable and more imposing.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“Hi.” It came out as a whisper. She clutched her small purse.
He looked her over, not leering, just taking her in. His gaze was warm, appreciative. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you. So do you.” She flushed. “I mean, handsome. You look… handsome.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his mouth. “Ready?”
The restaurant was the kind of place with soft lighting and marble floors that echoed faintly underfoot. He’d requested a corner booth, a semi-circle of plush velvet that felt like a world apart. A single candle flickered in a glass jar between them.
It was awkward.
The silence as they looked at menus was thick, charged with the memory of everything they’d already done. How do you make small talk with someone who has seen you come apart in their hands?
“How’s the toaster?” Rhys asked, not looking up from his menu.
The question was so mundane it broke the tension. A giggle bubbled out of her. “It works perfectly. It’s very… assertive. Pops the bread right out.”
“Good.” He glanced up, his eyes catching the candlelight. “That’s its job.”
The waiter came. Rhys ordered a bottle of red wine without fuss, something that sounded expensive. Aurora asked for the pan-seared salmon, her voice barely audible. He ordered a steak, rare.
When the waiter left, the silence returned, but it was softer now.
“This is weird, right?” Rhys said finally, leaning back against the velvet. “Sitting here like this.”
“A little,” she admitted. “It feels very… formal. After.”
“After,” he echoed. He took a sip of the water. “How’ve you been? Really. Not just the toaster report.”
“Tired. Sore.” She played with the edge of her napkin. “Quiet. I cleaned everything. It smells like lavender again.”
“I liked how it smelled before,” he said, and the directness sent a shiver through her.
“Me too,” she confessed to her silverware.
The wine arrived, was poured. They sipped. The alcohol was dark and rich, a warmth spreading in her chest.
“Tell me about the shop,” she said, needing to anchor him in the ordinary world.
He did. He talked about the rhythm of it, the smell of grease and gasoline, the satisfaction of an engine turning over after hours of work. He told a story about a classic Mustang that a kid had brought in, utterly ruined, and how they’d brought it back to life over six months. His hands moved as he talked, broad and capable, and she watched them, remembering exactly how they felt on her skin.
In turn, she told him about the old movie channel she loved, the black-and-white films where the dialogue was sharp and the romance was implied. She described her favorite, a comedy about a bookstore owner and a fisherman, and she got so wrapped up in explaining the plot she didn’t realize she was talking with her hands too, her voice growing steadier.
He listened. He really listened, his eyes on her face, not glancing around the room.
Their food came. They ate. The conversation drifted—music he liked, all heavy guitars and driving beats, the balcony garden she kept failing at, their mutual hatred for rush hour traffic.
It was normal. It was terrifyingly, beautifully normal.
He reached for the wine bottle to refill her glass, and his fingers brushed hers. A jolt, simple and electric. She didn’t pull away.
Later, when their plates were cleared and they were sipping the last of the wine, his hand rested on the table, palm up. An invitation. She stared at it for a heartbeat, then placed her hand in his. His fingers closed over hers, warm and sure. His thumb began to trace slow, absent circles on her palm, a calloused pad rubbing over her soft skin.
The casual touch was more intimate than anything she could remember. It wasn’t about need or heat. It was about holding on.
“I wasn’t going to do this again,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on their joined hands. “The whole date thing.”
“I know.”
“But you’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something easier,” he said, his thumb pausing. “Something that didn’t feel like this.”
She had no answer for that. She just tightened her fingers slightly around his.
He paid the bill, refusing her offer to split it with a firm shake of his head. The night air was cool as they stepped outside. His hand found the small of her back, a gentle, guiding pressure as they walked to his truck. It was a large, black, serious-looking vehicle, spotlessly clean.
He opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in, the leather seat cool through her dress.
Instead of going around, he stood in the open doorway, one hand on the roof, looking in at her. The parking lot light haloed his broad shoulders.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low.
She unbuckled and slid to the edge of the seat, her legs dangling. He stepped closer, into the space between the door and the seat. His hands came up to cradle her face, his touch infinitely gentle.
“I had a good time,” he murmured.
“Me too.”
He leaned in and kissed her. It was nothing like the kisses during her heat—those were consuming, desperate, a means to an end. This was slow. Deliberate. A soft press of his lips against hers, tasting of red wine and mint. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like he was learning a new map. Her heart hammered against her ribs. A small, traitorous sound escaped her throat—a soft, thrumming purr of pure contentment.
He froze at the sound. Then he pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes searching hers in the dim light. A slow, real smile spread across his face, the first one she’d seen that reached his eyes. It transformed him.
“Yeah,” he said, the word rough with something like wonder. He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Friday. My place. I’ll cook.”
She could only nod, her purr stuttering to a stop as she tried to catch her breath.
He helped her back into the seat, buckled her seatbelt for her as if she were something precious and fragile, and closed the door. The drive home was quiet, but the silence was full. Her palm, where his thumb had circled, still tingled. Her lips felt branded.
At her apartment door, he didn’t try to come in. He just kissed her again, once more, soft and sure.
“See you Friday, Aurora.”
He waited until she was inside, until she flicked the porch light, before turning to go. She leaned against the closed door, listening to the heavy tread of his boots fading down the hallway.
She touched her own mouth, still feeling him there. The purr rose in her chest again, unbidden, a quiet engine of happiness in the silent, empty apartment. He’d heard it. He’d smiled.
It wasn’t just a date. It was a beginning.