The decadent chocolate lava cake and my crème brûlée sat between us on the pristine linen, a sweet, fragile truce in the electric air. The molten chocolate oozed from the center of his dessert like a dark, secret heart, while the caramelized sugar top of my brûlée shone like amber under the soft, artful lighting. The moment the waiter retreated, melting back into the shadows of the empty restaurant and leaving us utterly alone in our bubble of intimacy, I leaned forward. The champagne, the rich food, and the night's dizzying intimacy had sanded down my filters to nothing.
"So," I began, tapping my spoon lightly against the tablecloth in a nervous, staccato rhythm. "Are you single?"
Carlos let out a low, delighted chuckle, the sound wrapping around me like warm velvet, seeping into my bones. "You never seem to stop amazing me, sweetheart." He shook his head, a slow, captivated smile spreading across his face, transforming his sharp, powerful features into something approachable, something real.
"Well? Are you?" I pressed, finally bringing my spoon down on the perfect, glassy crust of my dessert. It shattered with a supremely satisfying crack. "And if yes, how in the world is that possible? Please, for the love of God, do not say no."
He watched me take the first spoonful, his eyes following the movement of the spoon to my lips before meeting mine again, his gaze intense and focused. "I'm single," he confirmed, the words simple and direct.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated joy shot through me, so potent it was almost dizzying. I wanted to punch the air, do a spontaneous backflip right there on the marble floor, something ridiculously, unabashedly celebratory. I settled for a triumphant, incandescent smile that I tried, and failed miserably, to contain. "Wow," I breathed, lowering my spoon, the taste of vanilla and cream still lingering on my tongue. "How on earth is a man like you single? Is that even allowed? I feel like there should be a waiting list. A government mandate."
"It is allowed," he said, his gaze softening as it held mine, the ice in his eyes completely thawed now, leaving only a warm, captivating blue. "I've just… been waiting to find the right one."
The way he looked at me as he said it—as if the words were a key crafted for a lock only I possessed—sent a fresh, scorching blush heating my cheeks. Probably the hundredth time tonight, I thought, feeling the familiar warmth spread. Flustered, my brain short-circuited, desperately reaching for the most random, inconsequential fact in its cluttered inventory to break the intensity of the moment.
"You know," I said, gesturing vaguely with my spoon, a tiny drop of custard landing on the linen, "I was a cheerleader in high school." The second the words were out, I wanted to recall them, to pluck them from the air and stuff them back into my mouth. Why? Why, in this temple of fine dining, did I just tell a billionaire tycoon about my brief, glitter-pom-pom past?
A knowing, utterly unapologetic smirk touched his lips. "Yeah," he said smoothly, his voice a low hum. "I know."
My jaw went slack. The spoon in my hand clinked softly against the porcelain dish as my grip loosened. "You… you know?" The realization was a cocktail of equal parts thrilling and terrifying, a splash of excitement cut with the bitter tonic of invasion. "Okay, this is massively awkward. You know random, cringe-worthy things about my past, and I know… that you have a very nice smile and own a restaurant for the night. I don't like this imbalance of power. It feels like you're holding a royal flush and I'm trying to win with a pair of twos."
He laughed, a rich, full sound that seemed to delight in my flustered state, echoing warmly in the silent space. "What do you want to know, Hannah? Ask me anything. Level the playing field."
"Your age," I fired back immediately, seizing the opportunity like a lifeline.
"Thirty-two."
Thirty-two. The number hung in the air between us, solid and significant. My mind did the math in a flash, the calculation instantaneous. Eight years. An eight-year gap. It wasn't a canyon, but it wasn't nothing. It explained the effortless authority that clung to him, the subtle world-weariness that sometimes flickered in his eyes, the unshakable sense that he was firmly, unassailably established in a world I was still tentatively knocking on the door of.
"Oh," was all I managed, my voice a little breathy. "So, when I was struggling through quadratic equations and dreaming of getting my driver's license, you were probably… graduating college. Or buying your first company."
"Something like that," he acknowledged, a playful, challenging glint in his eye. "Does that scare you?"
I took a moment, honestly considering it. I looked at him—really looked at him. Not as the intimidating billionaire who could clear out a Michelin-starred restaurant on a whim, but as the man who had just shared a piece of his fundamental data with a simple, direct honesty I found profoundly disarming. I saw the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the assured set of his shoulders, the quiet patience in his expression.
"No," I said finally, my voice gaining strength, finding its conviction. I met his gaze, a slow, confident smile of my own spreading across my lips. "No, it doesn't scare me. It just makes me more curious. So, Carlos Blackwood, thirty-two. What's a story from your past that isn't, and will never be, in a confidential dossier?"
We lingered over the last, precious crumbs of our desserts, the conversation shifting to lighter, easier currents—favorite terrible movies from the early 2000s, worst childhood injuries (he broke his arm falling from a tree; I sprained my ankle tripping over my own feet in ballet), the universal, binding hatred for slow walkers on crowded sidewalks. The ease that settled between us felt as rich and sweet as the dark chocolate we'd just finished, a comfortable silence punctuated by soft laughter. Finally, with a soft, contented sigh that seemed to come from his very soul, Carlos stood.
He came around to my side of the table, and I felt a little thrill, a jolt of electricity, as he pulled out my heavy chair. I stood, instinctively smoothing down the sleek fabric of my burgundy dress, the silk cool under my damp palms, before grabbing my purse. As I stepped forward, a bold, mischievous idea took root. I walked a few paces ahead of him, putting a little extra, deliberate swing in my hips, a subtle sway I hoped he was appreciating, a silent testament to the ass I'd painstakingly sculpted through years of dedicated squats and lunges.
I couldn't resist. I glanced over my shoulder, a flirtatious, teasing smile ready on my glossed lips, only for it to instantly falter and die. My confidence deflated like a popped balloon. He wasn't looking at me at all; his gaze was focused somewhere over my head, toward the entrance, his expression shifting into something unreadable, a mask of cool assessment.
A cold knot of insecurity tightened in my stomach, squeezing the joy from the evening. Does he not find me attractive? Was the dress a miscalculation? Was this all just some bizarre, elaborate power play?
Frustration, sharp and hot, got the better of me. I spun around to face him fully, folding my arms across my chest—a move I knew perfectly well accentuated my cleavage. "A little stare at my ass wouldn't kill you, you know," I said, the words coming out more vulnerably, more bruised, than I'd intended.
Carlos's eyes snapped down from the middle distance to mine, and then he laughed—a warm, genuine sound that held no malice, only fond amusement. "Was that what that was? A performance for my benefit?"
"Maybe," I huffed, my cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation.
He just shook his head, a fond, private smile playing on his lips. "Come here," he said, his voice soft but firm, leaving no room for argument as he stretched out his hand.
I hesitated for only a second, my pride warring with the overwhelming pull I felt toward him, before slipping my hand into his. The contact was instantaneous, electric—his palm was large and warm, completely enveloping mine, the skin slightly rough in a way that spoke of real, physical activity, not just sterile desk work. That simple, rough-soft feel of his hand, the sheer, solid reality of it, sparked something deep and primal within me, quieting the noisy insecurities in my head.
As we walked side-by-side, hand-in-hand toward the door, the simple intimacy of the gesture felt more profound, more claiming, than any passionate kiss could have in that moment.
"When was your last relationship?" I asked, my voice quiet, my thumb unconsciously stroking the back of his hand, tracing the strong tendons.
"Six years ago," he answered without a moment's hesitation, his tone matter-of-fact.
The number stunned me, sending a small shockwave through my system. Six years? "Mine was four months ago," I confessed, suddenly feeling inexperienced and… messy. "And now I feel like that's wildly unfair to you. Like I'm bringing a lot of… recent baggage. Drama. The kind that probably still has the price tag on it."
He gave my hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, a silent communication that traveled straight to my heart, but didn't say anything more. The silence wasn't judgmental; it was accepting.
We stepped out of the climate-controlled restaurant, and the biting night air hit my exposed skin like a wall, raising immediate goosebumps on my arms and shoulders. I shivered violently, the cold a stark, brutal contrast to the warmth of his hand and the cocoon of the restaurant. The hosts wished us a good night as a few more discreet figures—the expanded, nighttime team of bodyguards—materialized from the shadows, a reminder of the world he inhabited.
As if he'd heard my body's silent, chattering plea, Carlos immediately shrugged out of his impeccably tailored suit jacket. The movement was fluid, instinctive. He draped the heavy, warm garment over my shoulders. The weight of it was immense, both physically and symbolically, and it carried his scent—that intoxicating, now-familiar mix of amber, sandalwood, cedar, and clean, expensive soap. It was like being wrapped in his essence.
"Thank you," I whispered, pulling the lapels closed, burrowing into its warmth and his smell.
"It's no big deal," he said, his hand finding the small of my back, a warm, guiding pressure that felt both possessive and protective as he steered me toward the waiting, obsidian Rolls-Royce. "I just don't want you catching a cold. Or freezing solid on my watch. It would ruin my reputation."
I laughed, the sound crisp and clear in the cold, still air. "That would be a less-than-glamorous end to the night. 'Local Woman Turns to Popsicle After Date with Billionaire.'"
The bodyguard stood ready by the open car door, a silent sentinel, but Carlos had other plans. Just as I moved to get in, he gently twirled me back around to face him. In one fluid, heart-stopping motion, he leaned down and pressed a soft, firm, lingering kiss to my cheek. His lips were surprisingly warm against my wind-chilled skin, and the sensation was so unexpectedly tender, so devoid of the earlier calculated power plays, that I felt my knees go genuinely weak. I wanted to melt into a puddle at his feet, to float away right then and there on the cloud of his scent and that single, perfect kiss.
He steadied me, his hands firm on my shoulders, a deeply satisfied, almost boyish glint in his eyes as he saw the utterly dazed, breathless look on my face. Then, ever the gentleman, he helped me into the plush, silent interior of the car.
Before stepping back, he braced a hand on the doorframe and leaned in, filling the space with his presence. "Did you enjoy the date, Hannah?"
I looked up at him, his form silhouetted against the bright, cold city lights, and my smile was so wide, so unreserved, it almost hurt my cheeks. "Yes," I breathed, the word full of every ounce of my joy and wonder. "I did. It's a solid 100 out of 10. Thank you for… well, for ordering me on a date. It was the best summons I've ever received."
His own smile in return was brilliant, unreserved, and lit up his entire face. "My pleasure."
The bodyguard closed the door with a soft, definitive thud, sealing me in the quiet, cedar-scented cabin. As the car pulled away from the curb, gliding into the night, I twisted in my seat, pressing my hand against the cool, dark glass, my eyes locked on his silhouette until he shrunk into a tiny, indistinct figure and the relentless, hungry night swallowed him whole. The ghost of his kiss still burned on my cheek, a brand and a promise.