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I leaned against the counter, suddenly very interested in whatever was happening outside the kitchen. “You’re getting very good at this. Making me wonder whether you actually mean what you say.”

“I do.” The simplicity of his answer made me smile. “Can I pick you up at seven?”

“Hmm, pick me up? That sounds very old-fashioned. It’s sweet; I like it. I’ll send you my address. Guess I’ll see you at seven.”

When the call ended, I stared at my phone and wondered why a few-minute conversation had left me feeling as though I’d been drinking something stronger than coffee.

I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to convince myself that dinner was simply dinner. It didn’t work. After I got home, I changed my clothes twice before settling on a simple black dress. I was still adjusting an earring when the doorbell rang.

Ronnie was standing outside in a dark jacket, his expression composed until his pale eyes found mine. They were even more striking up close, almost unnaturally light against his dark hair. For a second I forgot what I’d planned to say.

“You look beautiful,” he said. The warmth that spread through me was embarrassing.

I’d never imagined he could be this stunning. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. His mouth curved into a small smile.

The drive to the restaurant was easy, and somehow that surprised me more than anything else. Ronnie never seemed to run out of things to say, but he never dominated the conversation. He asked about the café, listened when I answered, and remembered small details from our first conversation that I’d forgotten mentioning.

By the time we arrived at the restaurant overlooking the harbor, I’d stopped thinking about how much older he was than me.

Dinner was even easier. I told him about cooking, and eventually about growing up without my parents. I rarely spoke about them, but something about the way Ronnie listened made me continue.

“They died when I was eight,” I said quietly. “I don’t remember as much as people assume I should.”

His expression changed. “I’m sorry.”

I looked down at my glass before meeting his eyes again. “It happened a long time ago.”

His eyes remained on mine. Even now, my heart was jumping like a teenager’s. “That doesn’t mean it stopped mattering.”

There was something in the way he said it that made my chest tighten. For the first time that evening, I wondered what kind of loss had taught Ronnie to make him look at another person’s pain like that. He simply knew how to handle it, and it was astonishing.

I’d noticed his scars earlier, but sitting across from him made them harder to ignore. There was a faint one near his knuckle and another disappearing beneath the cuff of his shirt. They weren’t the sort of marks I expected on a man who spent his days signing contracts and sitting in expensive restaurants.

Then there was the way he watched the room. He never seemed distracted, yet his eyes moved occasionally toward the entrance, the windows, and the people who came and went. He did it so naturally that I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching him so closely.

“You do that a lot,” I said. “Watch the doors.”

His attention returned to me. For the first time that evening, he looked caught off guard.

“Occupational habit.”

I smiled. “And what exactly is your occupation?”

“I’m a financial consultant. Part of my job involves evaluating properties and assets, so I tend to pay attention to the people coming and going.”

I laughed. I didn’t believe a word he said. It was all bullshit, but his expression remained thoughtful. There was something off about that answer I couldn’t quite place.

When the conversation turned to a news report about a violent robbery, his expression changed again. It was subtle, but I saw it. The warmth disappeared from his eyes for a moment, replaced by something colder and harder.

I should’ve been more concerned. Instead, I found myself wondering what had happened to make a man like Ronnie look at violence as though he understood it personally.

By the time he drove me home, I’d stopped trying to convince myself that I was merely curious about him.

I’d spent the entire evening telling myself to be careful with him, yet caution was becoming increasingly difficult to remember. The realization followed me out of the car and up the short path to my apartment. Ronnie stopped beside me when I reached the door.

“I had a good evening,” he said.

“So did I.”