Page 104 of Suite 7

Our first course arrives, burrata so fresh it’s creamy and delicate against the acidity of heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil. We eat slowly, and the conversation flows easier now.

He tells me about the first building he ever designed: a doghouse for his childhood golden retriever. How his father helped him draw the plans, calculate the dimensions, choose materials. How it leaked in the first rain and he cried, convinced he’d never be an architect.

“What did your dad say?” I ask.

“He said, ‘Scaffolding is temporary, Kane. Foundations remain. You’ll make mistakes, but you’ll learn from them. That’s how you build something that lasts.’” He pauses. “He died six months later. Heart attack. But I think about that every time I start a new project.”

I reach across the table and take his hand. “He’d be proud of you.”

“I hope so.” He squeezes my hand, then seems to shake off the weight of it. “Your turn. Tell me about your family.”

So I do. Growing up with my parents — my mom’s brand of organized chaos, my dad’s quiet steadiness, the two of them deciding early on that one child was enough and pouring everything they had into me. How that felt like abundance and pressure in equal measure. And then Sloane, my forever best friend.

“She loves you like a sister,” he says.

“I know.” The words come out tight.

He studies me for a moment. Chooses not to push.

The rest of dinner passes like that: questions and answers, stories and laughter, his hand finding mine across the table. Somewhere between the second course and dessert, I realize I’m completely relaxed. Happy.

I wish I could tell Sloane about it. The thought lands quietly, without drama. She’d have opinions about the suit. About the doghouse story. About the way he said beautiful like it was the only accurate word. I push it back down, but it takes a moment longer than it should.

The tiramisu arrives, one plate, two forks. He slides it between us without asking. We eat from opposite sides. At the next table, a couple leans toward each other over their wine. The older man two tables down laughs at something his companion says, while the waiter moves through the room with practiced quiet.

Kane’s lips close around the fork, and an ache settles low in my chest, different from want, though not entirely.

That’s when I know I’m in trouble. Not the bad kind. The kind where you realize how much you have to lose.

I need to do something with this feeling before it decides for me.

I pick up my fork. Take another bite.

“This is perfect.”

“The tiramisu?”

“Everything. This.” I gesture around us. “You. Being here with you like this.”

His expression softens. “I’m glad I called in that favor.”

“Me too.” I take another bite, let the sweetness melt on my tongue. “Although...”

His eyes sharpen slightly. “Although?”

I tilt my head, studying him across the table. “You’re being very well-behaved tonight.”

The air between us changes — a narrowing, a focused heat where there was warmth before.

“Is that a complaint?” He sets his wine glass down, deliberately slow — the kind of slow that means he’s choosing not to react.

“An observation.” I lean forward slightly, giving him a better view. “Very gentlemanly. Very proper. Very... restrained.”

“Vera.” There’s warning in his tone now.

“What?” I drag my foot slowly up his calf under the table. Watch his jaw tighten, a muscle jumping. “I’m saying, I appreciate the romance. The perfect dinner. The vulnerability. But part of me wonders...”

“Wonders what?”