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“Not at all. I like that you didn’t get me roses.”

Evan’s face sinks. “ShouldI have gotten you roses?”

“No, you idiot, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I think roses are cliché—and I hate the thorns.” I hug the bouquet to my chest and brush my lips against the soft white petals. “These areperfect.”

“Truly a terrible day to have eyes and ears,” Dahlia comments loudly as she walks past. There’s a biting edge of amusement in her voice, and she leaves a long billow of minty smoke behind her as she sweeps her hand in a haughty wave.

“Hi, Dahlia,” Evan says cheerily as he lifts me up and away from the smoke. “Bye, Dahlia.”

His hand still around my waist, we walk down to his car. Evan, like a true gentleman, opens the door for me, and when I climb in I’m surprised to find books strewn on the back seat, two paperbacks tucked in the console behind a coffee flask.

I grab the two paperbacks,The Sceptic’s ParadoxandEthics of Ruin, and frown up at him as he climbs into the car and buckles his seatbelt.

“You’re not actually reading these, are you?”

“I am.” He laughs. “They’re for work.”

“They sound very advanced,” I tell him, flipping through the dense pages.

“Are you saying I’m too stupid for them?”

I smirk at him. “Not at all. I think you’re a very clever youngman.”

“The nicest thing you’ve said that’s somehow still more insulting than calling me stupid.”

“I could always help you, if you need,” I tell him with a sly smile.

He laughs, a deep low hum that vibrates through the car. “You offering me some tutoring sessions, Sutton?”

“I’m a professional now. You’ll have to call meMissSutton.”

“If I call you that, it’s not a book I’ll be spreading open across my desk.”

Liquid heat flares in my belly, but I let out a scandalised laugh and slap his arm. “This is a first date, remember?”

He catches my hand and lifts it to his lips to kiss my knuckles.

“I remember.”

Evan chose well: therestaurant we end up in is small but bustling, elegant without being pretentious, even a little rustic. Perfect for a casual Friday night date after we’ve both been working all week.

Evan and I sit tucked in a back booth beneath deep green panelling and shelves stacked with olive oil bottles and aged balsamic. My coat hangs on a hook near an old wine rack, where Evan ever so gallantly placed it after slipping it off my shoulders.

Now he’s sitting next to me, one arm thrown over the corner of the booth, the tip of my boot hooked behind his calf, absentmindedly tucked there as we eat creamy pasta and sip wine from an expensive bottle. It’s not the kind of thing I’d ever have picked on my own, but Evan just grinned at me when the waiter arrived and ordered something he said I’d like.

And I do. Of course I do.

EvanKnight, for all the years I’ve known him, has never dated me. He’s fought me, broken me, kissed me, fucked me, adored me, but he’s never taken me on a date—an actualdate.

And now that he’s doing it, it turns out he’s, well… good at it.

Really good. I mean, I should’ve known. Evan’s only ever bad at the things he doesn’t want to be good at.

He takes his time with everything. Touching the small of my back as he guides me to our table, ordering wine without asking, refilling my glass without waiting for me to ask. He looks calm, at ease, relaxed, but every now and again his eyes linger on me, on my fingers when I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my mouth when I tug at my bottom lip with my teeth while I’m thinking.

And the way he looks at me sends a disconcerting thrill deep in my chest, a thrum of excitement beneath my skin. For the first time, I feel nervous being around him, almost flustered.

“What?” Evan says when he finishes ordering dessert and drinks—hazelnut and chocolate mousse and a godfather for him, crème brûlée and an espresso martini for me.