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The heat that flares in his eyes tells me he understands my meaning perfectly. Dinner isn't all I've been looking forward to.
“In that case,” he says, voice dropping slightly, “we should definitely keep our reservation.”
I drain the last of my drink and gather my purse, my skin tingling with anticipation. “Serena, Audrey, it's been lovely, but we have to go.”
Serena tears her attention away from her debate with Caleb long enough to give me a knowing look. “Of course you do. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”
“That leaves a disturbing amount of options open,” I reply, making her laugh.
“It was a pleasure meeting you both,” Bennett says, standing and offering me his hand. The simple contact sends electricity up my arm. “Caleb, don't stay too late. We have a conference call at seven tomorrow.”
Caleb nods, though his eyes stay on Serena. “Understood. Though I may need to review some... precedents... first.”
As we say our goodbyes, I can't help but notice how Serena leans slightly toward Caleb as they resume their conversation, and how his usual stern expression has softened into something closer to genuine interest.
“Those two are either going to kill each other or end up in bed together,” I murmur as Bennett's hand finds the small of my back, possessive and warm.
“My money's on both,” he replies, guiding me through the crowd. “Though knowing Caleb, he'll probably make her sign a non-disclosure agreement first.”
I laugh, but as we step into the cool Chicago evening, I realize something's shifted tonight. We're not hiding anymore. We're not ‘figuring things out.’
We're Bennett and Layla, together, and apparently that's something worth announcing to the world.
The certainty of it settles over me like a warm coat. As his hand tightens on my back and he hails a cab with his typical efficiency, I find myself wondering when exactly I stopped questioning this and started simply... believing in it.
Maybe that's what happiness actually feels like—not the desperate giddiness I expected, but this quiet confidence that we're exactly where we're supposed to be. Together.
LAYLA
The restaurant is only a short walk away. It's an exclusive French place with a months-long waiting list that Bennett obviously had no trouble getting into on short notice. The maître d' greets him by name and leads us to a secluded corner table, partially shielded from the rest of the dining room by an elegant arrangement of plants.
“This is beautiful,” I say once we're seated, taking in the understated classiness of the space with its soft lighting, crisp white linens and the quiet murmur of conversation.
“They're known for their privacy,” Bennett says, reaching for my hand across the table. His fingers intertwine with mine, thumb stroking across my knuckles in a way that sends heat spiraling up my arm. “And their wines.”
As if on cue, a sommelier appears to discuss options. Bennett defers to me, another small gesture that shouldn't surprise me anymore but still does. I select a Bordeauxthat earns an approving nod from both men, though I'm barely paying attention to their exchange about tannins and terroir.
All my focus is on Bennett's thumb tracing circles on my palm, the simple touch sending electricity straight to my core. I shift in my seat, hyperaware of how the silk of my dress slides against my sensitized skin.
Once we're alone again, Bennett's eyes find mine, his gaze more intense than usual. There's something predatory in the way he's looking at me, like he's already undressing me in his mind.
“What?” I ask, suddenly breathless.
“Nothing,” he says, though his expression says otherwise. “I just like looking at you. Especially when you're getting that flush across your chest. Thinking about my fingers again?”
“Maybe.” I glance down, realizing my skin has indeed pinked above the neckline of my dress. “You're being unusually forward tonight.”
“Am I?” His thumb continues its maddening circles. “Maybe I'm just done pretending I don't want to bend you over this table right now.”
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my belly. “Bennett.”
“I've been thinking about you all day,” he continues, voice dropping to that low register that makes my pulse race. “About getting you alone. About being inside you. About making you come so hard you do that thing where you start talking in tongues.”
My breath catches, the restaurant suddenly too warm. I press my thighs together under the table, already aching for his touch. “I don't talk in tongues.”
“You do.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a wicked smile. “And I love it. I've been fantasizing since I walked into that bar and saw you laughing with your friends. About taking you home and fucking you until you can't think straight.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, glancing around to make sure no one can hear us. “Did Bennett Mercer just tell me he's going to fuck me senseless in a Michelin-starred restaurant? While the sommelier is probably still within earshot?”