Page 102 of Suite 7

Fifteen minutes. I don’t have time to spiral.

I finish my makeup — not the bold red lips I’d wear to a scene, but rose-tinted. Natural. I leave my hair down in loose waves instead of the severe bun I wear to work or the styling I do for Eclipse.

When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.

The knock comes at exactly seven PM. Because of course it does.

I open the door.

Kane is in a charcoal suit, navy tie, hair styled but not rigidly so — like he ran his fingers through it once and let it fall.

His eyes track from my heels to my face, slow and unhurried, his breath catching, heat moving through his expression before he banks it with visible effort.

“You look beautiful.”

Not hot. Not sexy. Beautiful.

I press my lips together so I don’t tell him what it does to me. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Sinclair.”

He smiles, that rare genuine smile. “I try.”

Then he offers his arm like we’re in a period drama or he’s escorting me to a gala.

I take it, feeling ridiculous, charmed, and completely gone for this man.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he guides me to his car.

“Somewhere quiet. Private. Where we can talk.” He opens the passenger door for me. “Trust me?”

“Always.”

The drive takes twenty minutes through downtown, past the theater district, into a neighborhood I don’t know well. It’s upscale, the kind of place where restaurants don’t need signs because the right people already know where they are.

He pulls up to a small place tucked between a bookstore and an art gallery. Warm light spills from the windows, catching the old brick facade. A single word in gold script above the door: Marcello’s.

“I’ve never heard of this place,” I say.

“That’s the point.” He comes around to open my door. “They don’t advertise. You need a reservation weeks in advance. But the owner is a client. I designed his vacation home abroad. He owed me a favor.”

“You called in a favor for our date?”

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Inside, the restaurant is exactly what he promised — intimate without being stuffy, elegant without being pretentious. Maybe twenty tables total, all far enough apart for private conversation. Exposed brick walls. Soft candlelight. Fresh flowers on every table. Garlic and wine and something baking that makes my mouth water.

Sloane would love this place. She’d want to know the owner’s name, the wine list, the history of the building. I don’t say it out loud. I file it somewhere I’m not looking at tonight.

An older man in an immaculate suit approaches immediately. “Mr. Sinclair. Signorina.” He kisses my hand with old-world charm. “Your table is ready.”

He leads us to a corner booth, private, secluded, with a view of the small courtyard garden lit with string lights.

Kane holds my chair. His fingers graze my bare shoulder as I sit, and I go still for a half-second before I can stop myself.

“Marcello will bring you our finest,” the man says. “Trust him, yes?”

Kane glances at me. Checking. Not deciding for me.

“Trust him,” I agree.