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Chapter twenty-three

Katarina

I touch up my lipstick for the third time when it hits me—I haven’t been this nervous about a date since college.

Which is ridiculous, because this isn’t even a real date. It’s a damn performance. A carefully orchestrated evening designed to generate the right kind of headlines and keep certain other stories buried where they belong.

But my hands are still shaking as I cap the tube.

My dark blue dress clings like it remembers the woman I keep pretending to be—confident, polished, untouchable.

But standing here now, I feel more exposed than empowered.

Like a single wrong move could undo all the armor I’ve stitched together.

The zipper almost didn’t make it up. Not because of size, but because halfway through I panicked—like the fabric was tightening around someone I’m not sure I know how to be.

Someone bold enough to believe this could go anywhere. Someone foolish enough to want him.

I know there’s no version of this that works—no path forward that doesn’t set fire to something important. His future. My credibility. Griffin.

My phone buzzes against the bathroom counter. On my way. –L

Three words that send my pulse into overdrive. I press my palms against the cool marble, trying to center myself. This is just dinner. Two people playing their parts while cameras lurk in corners and gossip columnists sharpen their knives.

So why does my reflection look like a woman preparing for something that actually matters?

The knock comes at seven sharp. I open the door and forget how to breathe.

Liam stands there in a black button-down that should come with a warning label, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that belong in art museums. Those kaleidoscope eyes sweep over me with an intensity that makes my skin burn.

“Jesus, Kat.” The words rip out of him like they’ve been clawed from his chest. His gaze drags over the dress, lingering on places that make me remember what it feels like to be devoured instead of just admired.

Something wild and hungry flashes in his expression before he reins it back. “You look incredible.”

The careful control in his voice disappoints me more than it should. I want the hunger back. Want him to look at me like I’m something worth consuming instead of something he needs to keep at arm’s length.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” I manage, stepping out and locking my door.

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.”

The moment Griffin’s name leaves my lips, something shifts. Liam’s shoulders tense, his jaw going rigid like I’ve just mentioned a live grenade.

Shit. I didn’t mean to bring up my brother. It just happened, the way childhood stories do when you’re comfortable with someone.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.” His voice is gentle but final. “Not tonight, Kat. Let’s just... leave that alone.”

Relief floods through me, but it’s mixed with guilt. Because I know there’s ugly history between them, and here I am pretending I don’t have secrets of my own that could blow everything apart.

The wine arrives—a gorgeous Barolo that probably costs more than my monthly car payment. “You know wine.” I watch him swirl the glass with practiced ease, inhaling the bouquet like he’s done this a thousand times.

“I know enough.” But there’s something guarded in his expression, like this expertise comes with memories he’d rather not examine.

I take a sip and have to bite back a moan. It’s liquid silk, complex and perfect, with layers that unfold across my tongue.

“This is incredible. How did you know to order this?”

“Lucky guess.” The deflection is smooth, but I catch the way his fingers tighten around his glass.

We order and fall into conversation that flows easier than the wine.

He asks about my work with the team, seems genuinely fascinated by the science behind performance nutrition.

Most people’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about amino acid profiles, but Liam leans forward, asks questions that prove he’s actually listening.

“So when Marcus was dragging ass during afternoon drills,” he says, “you think it was because he was skipping lunch?”

“Probably. Low blood sugar affects cognitive function as much as physical performance. His reaction time was off, decision-making suffered.” I pause, struck by how natural this feels. “You actually care about this stuff.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Most people don’t. Nutrition science isn’t exactly riveting dinner conversation.”

His eyes darken. “Everything about you is riveting, Kat.”

The words hit me like lightning. For a moment, the restaurant fades away. There’s only him, only us, only the memory of heat and hunger and whispered words that still make me ache.

Then our appetizers arrive, breaking the spell.

The waitress is everything I used to wish I could be—tall, willowy, with effortless blonde beauty that makes magazine covers. She sets down our plates professionally, but when she looks at Liam, she lingers.

Her gaze sweeps over him like he’s dessert and she’s been fasting, and something territorial unfurls in my chest.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks, her voice dropping an octave. She’s angled entirely toward Liam, treating me like furniture.

“We’re good, thanks,” I say, but she doesn’t even glance my way.

“Are you sure?” She leans forward, giving him an excellent view. “I could bring you something special from the bar?”

The possessiveness turns molten. I want to grab her perfectly styled hair and remind her that he’s here with me.