And, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, he slides over a shaker of powdered sugar.
“For you.”
My stomach does that flip-flop thing again, the one that only happens when he makes me feel completely seen. I dust the sugar across my pancakes, beaming like a dork. Sure, it’s only powdered sugar. But it’s also a love language I didn’t realize I’d been starving for. This man remembers the tiniest things and turns them into proof that I matter.
Knox eats in that casually focused way that makes my insides hum. He could be savoring breakfast or cracking the stock market, and either way, he looks good doing it.
He chews, swallows, then glances sideways. “Hey.” I can’t help but melt when I notice he’s wearing that crooked half-smile. “Let’s go out tonight.”
I blink. “Outout?”
He nudges my chin with his knuckle, eyes dancing. “Our first real-life date. In New York. Just you and me. We can talk about all the things we haven’t yet…maybe even our future, if we’re feeling brave.”
I snort. “You want to talk about what comes next, like how we get around the huge Oliver Beaumont elephant in the room?”
“Only if you want to.”
I run my toe along his ankle beneath the barstool. “You realize I don’t have any date-night attire here.”
“Wear the shirt you’ve got on.” His gaze dips to where it hangs open at my thighs. “We can go forverycasual.”
I laugh, nerves coiling beneath the sound. “I would suggest you take me home so I can grab a few things. But I can’t exactly have you dropping me off in last night’s gala dress, either. Doorman Vic will absolutely report me to my dad.”
Without missing a beat, Knox grabs his phone, taps a few buttons, and lifts it to his ear.
“Wait—who are you calling?”
He lifts a finger. “Hey, Pamela. Can you put together a few outfits for a woman, five-five, size four… Yes, evening and casual. Undergarments and shoes, too. 34C. Shoe size 7. Think date-night meets It girl. Send to my Tribeca address.”
My mouth drops open. “You know my size? Shoe and bra size, too?”
He covers the phone. “I paid attention. And I’ve done our laundry.”
I shake my head, fighting a smitten grin.
After a few more back-and-forths, and one suspiciously long pause, he ends the call. “She’ll have a full selection here in a few hours.”
I arch a brow. “Who’s Pamela?”
“My assistant. And don’t worry. She won’t say a word. I’ll explain at dinner.”
“Knox…” I narrow my eyes, arms folded, unsure if I should be suspicious or impressed.
He leans in, gaze warm, his thumb sweeping the curve of my lip. “Trust me.”
Lark & Harlow is tucked just off Hudson, hidden behind a nondescript facade that whispers exclusivity.
Inside, it’s all low light and hushed elegance. A playlist of moody acoustic covers curls around the clink of glassware, candlelight catching on aged brick and brushed-gold fixtures.
The hostess leads us past flickering tapers and quiet conversation, through a narrow corridor that opens into a tucked-away alcove near the windows. Knox’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk, his touch, while featherlight, an electric current.
Our table is nestled beneath a curved archway, draped in soft shadows and set with amber glassware and a single white orchid. Streetlamps glow through the arched bay window, haloing gum-stained sidewalks in gold. Tribeca hums just beyond the pane, but here, it feels like time has slowed for us.
I slide into the leather booth, my back to the room, and Knox slides in beside me. The curated menu, the starched linen, the elegance, all of it, dissolves under his smoldering gaze as though this isn’t just dinner. It’s a new beginning.
Knox picks up the drink menu but doesn’t really read it, his thigh brushing mine under the table, a subtle press that steals a beat from my pulse.Still.
“You look beautiful.” His eyes flick down to the silky hem of my blush-pink, thigh-skimming dress, a perfect complement to his ink-black suit and the faint shadow of stubble that should be illegal in all fifty states.
