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But seeing Roisin is more or less in one piece, I begin to relax. We’ve been through so much these last few days I don’t think I’ve been able to entirely unwind, and a few hours of peace has me instantly craving more.
The idea hits me seconds before it leaves my mouth.
“You really want to go to dinner with me?” I repeat cautiously.
“And get out of this place?” She scrunches up her nose. “Absolutely.”
“Your brother did say not to.”
She cuts me off with a finger to my lips. “I couldn’t give less of a crap about Connor.”
“Good.” I offer her a crooked smile, resisting the urge to kiss her finger. “Because I’m in the mood to spend an exorbitant amount of money.”
Roisin looks down at her clothes, a flattering floral shirt and a pair of freshly-ironed flared jeans.
“Should I change, or…?”
“You look beautiful the way you are,” My voice is teasing, but I mean every word.
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Wait outside, I’ll get changed.”
“I can’t watch?”
I’m rewarded with a hard shove toward the door.
***
Roisin doesn’t take long to reemerge in a cute sundress, but it’s enough time for me to call ahead with our reservation and slightly more unique requirements. On a whim, I swipe up a small gift on our way out of the warehouse and place it firmly in my pocket.
By the time we pull up to the door, only an hour has passed, and I’m immensely surprised at how thorough the staff have been with my requests.
“Wow, it’s quiet around here,” Roisin observes as she slides out of the car.
She’s not wrong. Usually, this Italian restaurant has people queueing around the block to just get in. But today, we are greeted warmly by a single valet who eyes my Lamborghini like a kid on Christmas.
“Not a scratch,” I warn as I hand over my keys.
Roisin takes my hand and pulls me through the entrance. Only to gasp as soon as she pushes through the doors.
The restaurant, normally abuzz with the chatter of diners and the clinking of fine china, now stands in complete stillness. The polished mahogany tables are adorned with crisp, white linen and gleaming silverware, each setting meticulously arranged with precision and care. Crystal wine glasses catch the light, refracting into a dazzling display of prismatic colors.
Soft jazz music plays in the background, offering a soothing backdrop to our solitude.
“Are you sure it’s even open?” she asks, transfixed by the reflection of the chandelier on the polished floor.
“Mr. Knight?”
We both turn to see a well-dressed maître d’ smiling at us both.
“The one and only,” I respond cheerily. “Roisin? Where would you like to sit?”
She blinks up at me. “You’re joking?”
“May I recommend the center table?” the maître d’ suggests, beckoning us both in.
Roisin follows wordlessly, floating behind the maître d’ like she’s in some kind of dream. The small, monstrous part of me smirks in satisfaction. It’s not often I get to throw money around like this, at least not in front of female company. And the look on her face right now is simply priceless.
We sit at the beautifully arranged table, the maître d’ fussing over our napkins and water before disappearing with promises of champagne.
