Page 238 of The Wright Man

When the elevator doors slid closed, she wrapped her arms around my neck, rising on her toes to press a kiss to my jaw. "So I didn't know I was dating a man with connections..."

I grinned. "I got a few left. Old Marine buddy of mine's the head chef here now."

"Oh, so you're showing off tonight?"

"I mean... a little flex never hurt nobody."

She kissed me again, slower this time, lips warm and soft and tasting faintly of her berry lip gloss. My hands dropped automatically to her waist, then lower, gripping a handful of that perfect ass like muscle memory. She palmed me through my pants, grinning against my mouth when I hissed.

"Aye," I warned, voice low. "Chill before we gotta take a detour to the bathroom."

"I wouldn't be mad at it."

"I would. Reservation's in ten minutes. And I didn't call in a favor just to end up sweaty and late."

She pouted playfully, then stepped back with a wink. "Fine. But I'm not promising I'll behave at the table."

"I'm not expecting you to," I muttered, adjusting myself as the elevator dinged.

The rooftop restaurant opened up in front of us like a postcard—soft string lights overhead, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Potomac glittering in the distance. Our table was by the glass, set with crisp linens and glowing candles. Angelica's eyes widened, and she squeezed my hand tighter as we approached.

"This is beautiful," she whispered.

"You're beautiful."

She rolled her eyes, but I caught the blush anyway.

Dinner was slow and easy, like the best kind of Sundays. She kicked her shoes off under the table, curled her legs up beneath her like she was at home and not some bougie ass seafood restaurant, and leaned forward with her chin in her hand as she talked. I could listen to her forever.

"I've been thinking," she said between bites of blackened salmon. "After the divorce is final... I might let Alicia run the salon full-time. I'd still be the owner, but I want to step back. Maybe start something that gives back. Something like what you're doing with GhostFit."

I looked at her for a long second, letting the words settle in before nodding. "You know I'm with whatever you want to do."

She smiled, eyes soft. "I know."

"Seriously, Ang. You built Dana's Chair from nothing. If you wanna pivot, reinvent, evolve—I got you. Every version of you."

Her throat bobbed slightly as she swallowed. "Thank you, Leek."

I nodded and reached across the table to link our fingers together.

"I've been thinking about next steps too," I said. "For us."

She tilted her head, curious.

"Like... traveling more. Maybe doing a few projects around the house. That garden you keep talking about. Hell, even a YouTube baking channel if you want it."

She laughed, bright and real. "Baking channel?"

"Your skills deserve to be shared with the world. And you know I look good in an apron."

"You also look good in only an apron."

"Say less."

She giggled, biting her bottom lip. The tension under the table was real, but we didn't rush anything. We just sat there—two grown-ass people in love, eating good food, building something real. Something permanent.

After dinner, the harbor was quiet in that way only late summer nights could be—warm breeze, soft music drifting from nearby bars, the occasional bird crying overhead like it had something to say.