Chapter 6 - Dinner Without a ContractAt 6:45, I changed outfits for the 5th time.
Not because I wanted to impress Adrian Blackwood.
That would have been shallow.
I wanted to avoid looking as though I had tried to impress Adrian Blackwood, which required significantly more effort.
I finally chose a dark green dress, black boots, and the smallest earrings I owned.
At exactly 7:00, Daniel stood in the hotel lobby.
No limousine.
No dramatic motorcade.
Just a black sedan.
“Good evening, Ms. Hart.”
“Eve.”
He considered that.
“Mr. Blackwood calls you Eve.”
The statement contained information I was not sure what to do with.
“So can you.”
“I value my job.”
I laughed.
He opened the door.
Adrian was inside.
No tie.
Dark wool coat.
He looked less corporate.
Unfortunately, this made him more dangerous.
His eyes moved over me once.
Not slowly.
Not disrespectfully.
But enough.
“You came.”
“You invited me.”
“That doesn’t guarantee attendance.”
“No. That’s usually why invitations are invitations.”
His mouth shifted.
Daniel closed the door.
The restaurant surprised me.
I had expected marble, impossible reservations, and silverware requiring training.
Instead we stopped outside a narrow Italian place in the North End with fogged windows and handwritten specials taped beside the entrance.
Inside were 12 tables.
No one appeared impressed by Adrian.
A woman in her 60s came around the counter and kissed his cheek.
“You’re late.”
“It’s 7:14.”
“You said 7.”
“I didn’t.”
She looked at me.
“This is why nobody likes him.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Adrian stared at me.
The woman laughed and hugged me before I could react.
“I’m Rosa.”
“Eve.”
“Beautiful. Sit.”
Adrian took off his coat.
I leaned toward him.
“What is this place?”
“A restaurant.”
“Thank you, encyclopedia.”
His eyes warmed.
“My mother used to bring me here.”
The humor disappeared from my face.
“Oh.”
Rosa placed bread on the table.
“You were this high,” she said, holding a hand near her waist. “Wouldn’t eat tomatoes.”
Adrian’s expression became dangerous.
“Rosa.”
“He cried when sauce touched the pasta.”
I covered my mouth.
Adrian looked genuinely offended.
“That happened once.”
“Every Tuesday for 2 years.”
“Rosa.”
I laughed.
Really laughed.
The sound surprised me.
It had been less than a week since Preston’s message, yet here I sat across from one of the most intimidating men in American business while an Italian grandmother publicly dismantled his childhood dignity.
Dinner arrived without menus.
Pasta.
Roasted vegetables.
Bread.
Wine for Adrian.
Sparkling water for me.
“How does she know what we want?”
“She doesn’t ask.”
“So there is someone you can’t control.”
“Apparently.”
I smiled.
He watched me.
That look again.
Too focused.
“What?”
“You laugh differently when you forget to be careful.”
My smile faded slightly.
“I’m careful?”
“Very.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I didn’t say it was criticism.”
I broke a piece of bread.
“Why did you ask me here?”
His answer came immediately.
“I wanted to see you.”
“That still sounds suspicious.”
“Why?”
“Because people like you don’t usually want things without a reason.”
“People like me?”
“Billionaires.”
“I know several billionaires who make irrational decisions daily.”
“I’m sure you have a support group.”
His mouth curved.
There.
An actual smile.
Small but undeniable.
It transformed his face.
For the first time I saw the man underneath the reputation.
And something in me became scared.
Not of him.
Of wanting to see that expression again.
He leaned back.
“Tell me about Preston.”
“No.”
“Fair.”
I blinked.
“That easy?”
“You said no.”
“You accept no?”
“When it’s clear.”
I thought about that.
“Did you ever marry?”
“No.”
“Almost?”
“No.”
“Relationship?”
His face became blank.
“That’s an aggressively vague noun.”
“Human woman you voluntarily spent time with?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Enough that answering precisely would make this dinner worse.”
I almost choked on water.
“Okay.”
“And you?”
“One serious relationship.”
“Preston.”
“Yes.”
“How did you meet?”
I looked at him.
“I thought we weren’t talking about Preston.”
“You said you wouldn’t tell me about him. This is technically about you.”
“That is lawyer behavior.”
“My attorneys would be offended.”
I smiled.
“College alumni event. I was 24. He was charming.”
“What changed?”
I stared at my plate.
“Nothing.”
Adrian waited.
“That was the problem.”
I put down my fork.
“He was exactly who he had always been. I just kept editing him in my head.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted it to work.”
“That isn’t a reason.”
“It is when you grow up believing staying is the same as loving.”
His eyes changed.
I realized I had said too much.
“My father died when I was 17,” I continued quietly. “Cancer. My mother took care of him for 3 years. She never complained. Never left. I think somewhere along the way I decided devotion meant enduring things.”
“Your mother loved him?”
“Very much.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“No.”
“Then you copied the wrong part of the story.”
The words landed hard.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“She stayed because he was dying. You stayed because someone disappointed you.”
I went still.
“That’s annoyingly perceptive.”
He drank his wine.
“I have occasional moments.”
Rosa brought dessert.
One tiramisu.
Two forks.
I looked at Adrian.
“Do billionaires share dessert?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Rosa believes money is a personality defect.”
“Smart woman.”
He cut into the tiramisu.
I ate from the opposite side.
For several minutes, life became strangely normal.
Then a woman approached our table.
Blonde.
Elegant.
Maybe 35.
Her expression changed when she recognized Adrian.
“Adrian?”
His body immediately hardened.
The change was subtle but complete.
“Celeste.”
Her eyes moved to me.
Then back.
“I didn’t know you were in Boston.”
“I live here.”
She laughed like that was charming.
“I meant socially.”
She touched his shoulder.
He did not move.
I saw his eyes go cold.
“This is Eve Hart,” he said.
Celeste looked at me.
“Oh.”
One syllable.
Enough information.
“Architect?”
“Designer,” I said.
“Lovely.”
She looked back at Adrian.
“Call me sometime.”
“No.”
The answer came so simply that even I stared.
Celeste blinked.
Then smiled through it.
“You haven’t changed.”
“I have.”
Her face tightened.
She walked away.
I waited.
Adrian continued eating tiramisu.
“Former aggressively vague noun?” I asked.
His fork stopped.
“Something like that.”
“That was brutal.”
“She asked me to call.”
“You said no like she offered you food poisoning.”
“I don’t want to call her.”
“You could have said maybe.”
“That would be dishonest.”
I looked at him.
“So when you say something, you mean exactly that.”
“Generally.”
I thought of his message.
I would like to see you.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
When dinner ended, we walked outside.
Snow had stopped.
The streets shone beneath amber lights.
Daniel waited half a block away, giving us space.
Adrian and I walked slowly.
“I should tell you something,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I’m not ready for anything.”
He looked ahead.
“I didn’t ask for anything.”
“I know.”
“That sentence usually means someone is answering a question the other person didn’t ask.”
“I just ended a 3-year relationship.”
“Five days ago.”
“You counted.”
“I remember dates.”
“I’m a mess.”
“No.”
“You saw me at JFK.”
“That was grief.”
“You make everything sound clinical.”
“It helps.”
I stopped walking.
He stopped too.
“I don’t want to use you to feel better.”
Something moved in his face.
“That may be the first time anyone has expressed concern about using me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
His voice softened.
“Eve, I have no intention of asking you for something you don’t want to give.”
The street seemed suddenly silent.
“What do you want?”
His gray eyes held mine.
“Another second.”
My breath caught.
He did not move toward me.
He waited.
Choice.
Again.
So I stepped forward.
Not because I was crying.
Not because the world was ending.
Because I wanted to.
I wrapped my arms around him.
This time Adrian did not freeze.
His arms closed around me immediately.
Warm.
Strong.
Careful.
I pressed my cheek against his chest and heard his heart beating faster than I expected.
We stayed that way far longer than one second.
When I finally leaned back, his hands remained lightly at my waist.
Our faces were too close.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
Mine did the same.
He could have kissed me.
I wanted him to.
That realization terrified me.
I stepped back.
His hands disappeared instantly.
“Goodnight, Adrian.”
For a moment he said nothing.
Then:
“Goodnight, Eve.”
He watched me get into the car.
During the entire ride to the hotel, Daniel looked straight ahead.
When we arrived, I reached for the door.
“Ms. Hart.”
I looked at him through the mirror.
“Yes?”
He hesitated.
“I’ve worked for Mr. Blackwood 9 years.”
I waited.
“I have never seen him hug anyone.”
My hand froze on the door handle.
Daniel immediately looked as though he regretted speaking.
“Goodnight.”
I got out.
Upstairs, my phone vibrated.
Preston.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw the message.
May you like
Who is Adrian Blackwood?
My entire body went cold.
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