Page 17 of Surprise Me Tonight (Claimed on Sight #1)

Wine’s breathing on the counter. Candles lit — found them in a drawer under the spare dish towels, no idea who put them there. I’ve folded napkins. Not well, but the effort’s there.

None of this is for show. It’s not a grand gesture, not a setup for seduction — though God knows I’d like the night to end with her skin under my hands again.

I just wanted to do something… nice .

That’s the word. Nice .

Ridiculous.

I’ve built my whole reputation on being the man who doesn’t do nice . I do efficient. Ruthless, when needed. Strategic. Not salmon and candlelight and watching the clock like a teenager hoping his date will show.

But it’s Friday and we deserve a quiet night in.

I’m not asking her to stay.

I’m bribing her. Gently. Hoping she doesn’t notice. Hoping she does.

I glance toward the hallway again. Still her voice drifting, wrapping up whatever agenda she’s been stuck with.

She softens me.

That’s the truth of it.

She makes me want to slow down. To take off the suit jacket before she tells me to. To open a bottle of wine before she even asks. To cook. Bloody hell .

I used to think softness made you vulnerable. That letting someone in meant giving them a weapon and hoping they didn’t turn it on you.

But she’s not dangerous.

She’s steady.

And I’m starting to wonder if this relationship might be the bravest thing I’ve done in years.

I hear the door down the hall open. Then her footsteps — soft but unhurried — padding across the floor.

My pulse lifts, ridiculously.

She appears in the doorway, hair still pinned up from the day but coming loose in strands. She smells like whatever soap she keeps in the ensuite near her desk.

Her eyes move to the table first. The wine. The candles. The salmon, just coming out of the oven.

Then to me.

“What’s all this?” she asks, one eyebrow lifting.

I don’t answer with words. I cross the room, reach for her waist, and kiss her, slowly and deliberately, until she melts a little against me. Her body eases. Her hand finds my shirt.

Then I lean in close and nibble just beneath her ear, right at the soft spot that makes her breath catch.

“I’m trying to convince you to stay the weekend,” I murmur.

She laughs — that low, quiet sound that always feels like it’s meant just for me. Her hands slide up my chest, and she kisses me back, warm and deep and full of that same want I’ve had simmering since lunch.

But then she pulls back, just enough to look at me. “I can’t. Not the whole weekend.”

I raise a brow.

She winces slightly. “My aunt’s sixtieth. Family thing. I need to show my face.”

Disappointment tugs at the corner of my chest — not sharp, just enough to feel it.

I cover it with a nod. “Of course.”

“I could come back after?”

That snaps my gaze to hers. She’s smiling now, a little sly.

“You mean,” I say slowly with a grin, “you’re not completely heartless?”

“No,” she replies, standing on tiptoe to kiss me again, slower this time. “Just occasionally obligated.”

I pull her in, let her lean into me for a moment. Her presence softens the room, like everything settles where it’s meant to the second she walks in.

I rest my chin lightly against her hair and murmur, “So… what does it take to score an invite to this legendary family birthday bash?”

She pulls back, laughing as she looks up at me. “You want to come? ”

I open my mouth to give a half-joking answer — something flippant. But nothing comes.

Do I?

“I mean…” I clear my throat. “Yeah. Why not?”

Her smile falters slightly, curiosity flickering behind her eyes. “You’d really want to come to a family do? It’s not glamorous. Cake, sandwiches, a bit of Prosecco if you’re lucky. Lots of shouting over music.”

I shrug. “Doesn’t sound worse than a Ministry meeting.”

She tilts her head. “You’re not joking.”

“No,” I say, slowly now, frowning a little at myself. “I’m not.”

It hits me then — how strange that is. I haven’t gone to my own family things in years. Not since Mum and Dad passed. Since it all stopped meaning what it used to.

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. I stopped showing up. Stopped needing to. No one expected it. No one asked.

I look at her. At the way she’s watching me, thoughtful, her hands still gently curved around my waist.

And for the first time in a long while, the idea of being someone else’s guest, being part of something that’s not about business obligation… doesn’t feel suffocating.

It feels… possible. I didn’t see it until now, but I need this. It proves we’re more than “casual”.

“You don’t have to say yes,” she says softly, reading something in my silence.

“I know,” I reply. “But I’m saying it anyway.”

She studies me for a second longer. Then nods once, slow. “Okay. ”

And just like that, something shifts between us again — no big moment, no fanfare. Just a quiet step further into each other’s lives.

The sauce starts to bubble behind me. I glance at the hob.

“Right,” I say, reaching for the spoon. “You might want to sit. I can’t promise a culinary masterpiece but I think it is edible.”

She leans against the counter, eyes shining. “This already beats every takeaway I’ve ever had.”

“You know how to praise a man, Stardust,” I reply with a wink. Her laughter fills the space, and suddenly the kitchen doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It feels like ours.

The village hall smells like old wood, lemon cleaning spray, and at least five different kinds of finger food.

It’s exactly what she promised — plastic cups of warm prosecco, fairy lights strung unevenly across the ceiling, and an amateur band gamely fighting a feedback issue.

Her aunt Joan is holding court in the centre like a queen who’s just discovered karaoke, and no one’s going home until she’s sung Dancing Queentwice.

People have been friendly. Chatty, even. But there’s a thread running underneath every handshake and smile: Who’s this, then?

Stella’s not oblivious. I can see it in the way her hand finds my arm whenever someone gets too interested, or the way she redirects a question just before it becomes a bit much . It’s not obvious, but it’s there. Her subtle wall-building.

Someone tried the age question a few minutes ago. A cheerful “So how does one meet such a youthful soul...?” followed by an entirely unnecessary wink.

Stella didn’t blink. “We met through work,” she said simply, then offered them a vol-au-vent like it was a conversation ender.

It worked.

She hasn’t let go of me since.

Now she’s pouring us both a drink from the folding table that’s doing its best to serve as a bar.

“You’re doing a lot of deflecting,” I murmur, leaning in.

She doesn’t look up. “You’re doing a lot of turning heads.”

“I’m not even trying.”

“That’s the problem.”

I glance down at myself. “Didn’t realise a black T-shirt was so provocative.”

“It’s the arms,” she mutters, then flicks me a look. “And the face. And the you-ness.”

I grin and take the plastic cup from her hand.

“I like seeing you in this world,” I say, quietly now.

She finally meets my gaze. Something shifts behind her eyes — not soft exactly, but unguarded .

“I like being in it,” I add.

She gives a small shake of her head, lips curving like I’ve said something dangerous. Then she thrusts a sausage roll into my hand, the most British way possible to say don’t get soppy on me.

Before I can find a retort that doesn’t sound like a marriage proposal, Aunt Joan waves us over from her spot near the centre of the room. She's surrounded by half a dozen guests, a pile of gifts, and what looks suspiciously like another gin and tonic.

Stella links her arm through mine and leads me to the table like I need guidance but I think she is the one who needs the support.

“About time you came to say hello properly,” Joan says, swatting at Stella’s hip with the back of her hand. “Keeping this one hidden, were you?”

Stella laughs. “You’ve been surrounded all night. I was waiting for your fan club to thin out.”

Joan eyes me up and down, not subtly. “He’s got forearms. And a nice smile. Good start.”

“Lovely to meet you,” I say, trying not to grin.

She waves it off like I’ve said something idiotic. “Don’t be daft. No need for formalities. I’ve already decided I like you.”

We sit with her, chatting. It’s easy, surprisingly. She’s sharp as anything — calls out a greeting to every newcomer, has opinions on absolutely everything, and tells me I should stop being shy and pour her another drink.

But then I notice it — the whispering. One of Stella’s cousins, huddled at a table not far off, clearly not as subtle as she thinks she is. Eyes flicking to us. Whispering to the one beside her, who looks mortified.

Joan spots it too.

She puts down her drink, leans slightly forward, and barks — actually barks — across the room, “If you’ve got something to say, love, bloody say it out loud.”

The cousin freezes like she’s just been slapped with a cold fish. Her companion coughs awkwardly. They both go red and shuffle off towards the toilets .

Joan snorts. “Honestly. Whispering like we’re in bloody school.”

Stella is mortified. “Joan—”

“No, no. Let me finish,” Joan says, turning to her properly now. “You listen to me, darling. Everyone’s just jealous you’ve found yourself a proper good one.”

Stella tries to smile, but it wobbles at the edges. Joan catches it.

“Don’t let people put rot in your head. You’re allowed to be happy. And you deserve it. Simple as that.”

Stella’s quiet. Her fingers tighten around mine, just for a moment.

I want to say something — thank you, maybe — but Joan’s already waving me off and asking if I know how to foxtrot because the band’s starting again.