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I blink at the sight. “This place is really”—unnerving—“magical.”

Des leans back in his seat, a sardonic smile spreading across his lips. “What do you want to eat?” he asks.

I furrow my brows. “We haven’t received menus yet…”

I haven’t even fully finished speaking when a plate of ravioli drops to the table in front of me.

Now, how thehelldid that happen?

Des laughs at my wide eyes.

“Is this even safe to eat?” I ask.

He leans forward, his sculpted forearms resting on the table. “Would I lead you astray, cherub?”

I give him the stink eye. “Last time you said that, you tricked me into falling off a building.”

“Flyingoff a building.”

I roll my eyes. “Semantics, Des.”

“Semantics are everything, Callie, or have you learned nothing from me?”

I pick up my fork, eyeing my pasta, which is covered in some mystery cream sauce. “No, you’re right. You’ve taught me exactly what it means to be a slippery bastard.”

Des lounges back in his seat, a smug expression on his face. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

I cut into one of the ravioli and take a bite. Somehow, it’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.

“Good?”

I close my eyes and nod, savoring the taste a little longer.

“And look, it didn’t even kill you.”

Des just had to go and be Des.

“Yet,” I tack on because I can be snarky too.

I open my eyes, and—I shit you not—achurroshimmers into existence in front of Des, plopping onto the table a moment later. It even has that cheap waxy paper wrapped around its base, just like what you’d find at a carnival.

I raise my eyebrows.

Des picks up the churro and kicks one foot then the other onto the table. Shamelessly, he bites into the dessert.

I’ll give him this: he’s owning this moment.

Crossing his ankles, he says, “Tell me, love, what’s a dream of yours?”

“A dream?” I repeat, another bite of ravioli midway to my mouth.

“Something you want out of life?”

I take my bite of the ravioli and chew slowly. Once I swallow, I shrug. “To be happy, I guess.”

“C’mon, cherub,” he says, pointing the churro at me, “Don’t make me take a bead. I know you’ve got something more specific than that.”

I stare down at my pasta, sucking my cheeks in. “I don’t know,” I eventually say. “Two months ago I would’ve told you I wanted a husband and a family.” I’m surprised the confession comes out as freely as it does. Des might not be the only person learning how to be vulnerable.