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He moves closer as I fumble with my keys, close enough that his cologne hits me—wood smoke and sin, and something darker that makes my thighs clench. For a heartbeat, I think he might kiss me. The air between us crackles, and I find myself swaying toward him.

Then he steps back, offering his arm, and the moment dissolves.

“Ready?”

No. I’m not ready for any of this. But I take his arm anyway.

His car is sleek black leather and expensive technology. He opens my door, waits while I settle, then closes it with the kind of care usually reserved for fragile things. The gesture catches me off guard—not because it’s polite, but because it feels deliberate. Like I matter.

“So where exactly are we going?” I ask as he slides behind the wheel.

“Vino e Cucina.” He pulls into traffic with practiced confidence. “Figured you’d appreciate watching the chefs work.”

I blink. That’s not some generic upscale chain chosen for maximum visibility. That’s a place food lovers go when they actually want to enjoy their meal.

“How did you—” I stop myself, because the answer should be obvious. He’s been watching me. Paying attention in ways that matter.

Last week during road trip meal prep, I’d gotten lost in helping the catering staff perfect their plating. It wasn’t my job—I was just supposed to approve the nutritional breakdown—but there’s something about watching skilled hands transform ingredients into art that makes my soul quiet.

I didn’t think anyone noticed.

“Most people assume I just count calories and lecture guys about vegetables,” I say carefully.

“You do way more than that.” His voice carries warmth I wasn’t expecting. “Callahan hasn’t touched an energy drink since you explained what that shit does to his insulin response. And watching you break down macronutrients for the guys? That was like watching someone conduct an orchestra.”

The observation hits me sideways. He was listening. Actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk or checking his phone while I droned on about nutrition science.

“You were paying attention.”

“I always pay attention to people who know their shit.”

The simple statement does something dangerous to my chest, makes it tight and warm in ways that have nothing to do with professional appreciation.

The restaurant exceeds every expectation I didn’t know I had. Warm lighting dances off exposed brick walls, and the open kitchen creates a symphony of sizzling pans and sharp knife work. It’s intimate without being cliché, elegant without trying too hard.

The hostess leads us to a corner booth with a perfect view of the culinary theater.

“This is amazing.” I lean forward, completely absorbed by the controlled chaos happening behind the pass. The way the chefs move—no wasted motion, every action purposeful. It’s like watching a perfectly orchestrated machine where each part knows exactly when to fire.

“Worth the mystery?”

“Absolutely.” I watch a chef plate what looks like duck breast with cherry gastrique, every movement deliberate and skilled. “My dad would lose his mind over this place.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, carried on a wave of genuine happiness that makes me forget to monitor my responses.

“Tell me about him.”

The request catches me off guard—not because he asked, but because he sounds like he actually wants to know. Like my answer matters beyond small talk.

But I know what I’m not saying. That he grew up bouncing between foster homes while I had Sunday morning pancakes and bedtime stories. Talking about my father feels like flaunting privileges he never had.

“He taught me that cooking is chemistry made edible,” I say softly, trying to navigate around the landmine. “Every technique has a scientific basis, but the art is in knowing when to break the rules.”

“Sounds like someone who’d understand what you do.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice, just quiet acceptance that somehow makes this worse. I want to acknowledge the disparity between our childhoods, but I don’t know how without making everything awkward.

“He used to challenge Griffin and me to create dishes using random ingredients.” The memory makes me smile despite my nervousness. “Dad would clean out the pantry, dump everything on the counter, and tell us to make magic happen. Griffin attacked it like a competition—more spice, more heat, more everything. I just wanted to make something that tasted like love.”