Page 64 of His Holy Chaos

Alfie watches him go. Then he turns to me.

The shift is instantaneous. His public face drops away, the composed, witty, impenetrable surface, and underneath is the Alfie I know. The one who sits on the phone with me for hours when I can't speak.

He leans across the table. The light catches the angles of his face, the sharp jaw, the shadows under his eyes that no amount of tailoring can disguise.

"He's good for you," Alfie says. "I can see it."

My face goes hot. I reach for the crème brûlée and tap the caramelized surface with my spoon, watching it crack into golden shards. "Don't start."

"Don't be silly. That's why I came. I've been evaluating all night and I'm rendering my verdict." He leans closer. "He looks at you like you're the most fascinating puzzle he's ever encountered. Something he wants to understand, not fix."

I crack the brûlée harder than necessary, but I laugh. "That makes no sense. You're projecting."

Alfie's hand covers mine, and he's not a man who touches easily. "I know you're scared. I know what happened last time. But this isn't last time. This man sat on a floor with you while you cried about a cat video and didn't make you feel small for it. You told me that yourself."

I stare at my dessert. The crème brûlée stares back, its perfect surface ruined, the custard underneath exposed and trembling.

"I just don't want to ruin it," I whisper.

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because you've never once ruined anything worth keeping. You've only ever ruined things that were already broken." He sits back, picks up his fork, and takes a precise bite of his chocolate torte. "Now eat your dessert before he comes back and sees you being emotional. He'll think I upset you, and frankly, I'd like to survive the evening. He really is terrifying in that quiet, actual-Dom way."

I laugh, and I eat the crème brûlée. I always do as told, it seems.

Ford returns two minutes later, sliding back into his chair. "Angel's fine," he says. "She refused her bottle for Martha and then accepted it from the cat."

"You don't have a cat," I say.

"Martha's cat. She brought the cat." He sighs. "Apparently Angel finds the purring soothing."

"Angel has taste. Cats are bloody amazing," Alfie says, his London accent surfacing, as it does when he's relaxed. Ford chuckles and shakes his head.

"Are we done, gentlemen?" he asks, looking at our empty plates, and when we nod, he signals for the check. I reach for my wallet.

"Don't," he says.

"Daddy!"

"Jude."

"This is a three-hundred-dollar dinner."

"I'm aware of what things cost," he says.

"Let your man pay for your dinner," Alfie says. I roll my eyes.

"Exactly, Alfie. Help me talk some sense into this boy."

I roll my eyes again. He pays.

Outside, the air is cool and smells like recent rain. Alfie pulls me into a hug and kisses my cheek. Then he reaches into his jacket and produces a business card, extending it to Ford.

"In case you need someone to talk to about Mahler," Alfie says. "Or about him." A tilt of his head toward me.

Ford takes the card and smiles. Then he produces one of his own. They exchange them.