“Especially those.”
The car turns onto Wilshire and outside, Los Angeles rushes by.
“Okay,” I say. “Teach me. How do we do this?”
The restaurant is tucked into a courtyard in Los Feliz—one of those places you’d never find unless someone told you it existed. No sign. No visible entrance. Just a wooden door in a vine-covered wall and a hostess who greets Julian by name.
“Mr. Blackthorne. Your usual table?”
“Please.”
We’re led through a garden strung with fairy lights and sat in a corner booth that feels completely private. I slide in; Julian slides in beside me instead of across from me.
Close. Very close.
“This is practice,” he says, reading my expression. “At the wedding, we’ll be seated together. Beside each other. You need to be comfortable with proximity.”
“I’m comfortable with proximity.”
“Your breathing says something different. Shorter inhales. Your pulse is visible in your throat.”
“Are you watching my pulse?”
“Always.”
I knew he could hear it!
I don’t know what to say to that. He’s doing it again—saying things that sound romantic until you think about them too hard, and then they sound almost predatory.
The waiter appears. Julian orders wine without looking at the menu—a specific vintage, a specific year. The waiter nods like this is normal.
“How often do you come here?” I ask.
“Often enough.”
“With other women?”
“Occasionally.” He doesn’t flinch from the question. “Business dinners mostly. A few dates. Nothing serious.”
“When was the last serious one?”
He pauses. “A long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Long enough that I’ve forgotten how to do this properly.” He gestures between us. “The intimacy. The vulnerability. I’ve spent years building walls, and now I’m supposed to pretend they don’t exist. So this is for me, as much as for you.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice is strange—rough at the edges. “That’s exactly what I have to do.”
I want to push. Want to ask what he means, what walls, what vulnerability. But the wine arrives, and the moment passes, and Julian shifts back into the smooth composure I’m starting to recognize as his default setting.
“Let’s practice,” he puts his hand on the table. “Place your hand next to mine.”
I place my hand palm-down on the white tablecloth. He covers it with his own.
Cool fingers. Long and elegant. A grip that’s firm without being tight.
