Chapter 21
Callum
Iwalked around to Gabrielle’s side and opened the car door, holding my breath against the night’s chill.
She accepted my hand and stepped out gracefully, a vision in plum silk.
Her dress hugged her waist, then flared gently, its low neckline a perfect invitation to everything I wasn’t supposed to want.
She looked stunning—an elegant risk in every way that mattered.
“In that dress,” I said, my breath fogging as I pulled her close, “you’re going to make me break all kinds of rules tonight.”
“Promise?” Her eyes sparked with mischief—and something softer beneath it.
I kissed her forehead, the heat of her pressed against me, then reluctantly let her go. Still, I kept her close as we walked toward the restaurant.
Josephine’s stood at the end of the street like a grand old lady, its exterior an artful imitation of a restored Queen Anne.
Twinkling lights danced along the porch railings, and its name glowed in boldly lit letters.
Gabrielle shivered as we climbed the stairs, and I slipped my arm around her shoulders.
“Cold?”
“Less so now,” she said, tilting her face up with a smile that left me recalculating every boundary I’d ever drawn.
Inside, the restaurant was warm and inviting.
Red wine, garlic, and spice hung in the air, each note distinct but perfectly blended.
I gave the hostess my name, and she led us to a rounded booth with a high red leather back tucked into the corner behind a delicate screen of greenery.
It was intimate without being sequestered—exactly the balance I’d hoped for.
A vintage crystal chandelier cast soft light over white linen tables. The low hum of conversation wove through the gentle strains of a jazz trio near the far wall, and smartly dressed couples swayed lazily on the dance floor.
Gabrielle slid in beside me, close enough that our legs brushed under the table. She leaned into me, her warmth settling against my side like it belonged there.
“This is amazing,” she said, her voice low with awe.
“Perhaps I should’ve worn a tie,” I said, glancing around. “I didn’t realize Dallas had such potential for sophistication.”
“You’re perfect.” She squeezed my hand—and gave me a look that made me briefly regret booking a table instead of a hotel room.
The menus came tucked into leather folders—elegant, minimalist, and clearly curated for people who didn’t blink at the price. Gabrielle skimmed over hers, a flicker of uncertainty playing beneath the edges of a smile.
“This feels…elevated,” she said, eyes scanning the page. “I’m not used to dating like this.”
I smiled over the rim of my glass. “I’m not used to dating, full stop.”
She looked up, surprised into a soft laugh. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I said. “Plenty of dinners. Fewer I’d call dates.”
Her eyes sparkled as she looked back down at the drink list. “What’s the protocol? Wine? Cocktails?”
“Depends,” I said, glancing up at the waiter approaching our table. “But I’d say this calls for champagne.”
She quirked a brow. “Champagne before dinner?”
“Bubbles before dinner. Wine with. It’s all about rhythm,” I said, voice low and teasing. “The French say it opens the appetite.”
“For food, or…?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
The waiter appeared, and I ordered two glasses of Saint-Chamant Blanc de Blancs. Gabrielle leaned back slightly as they were poured, watching the fine streams of bubbles rise in her glass.
“To being exactly where I want to be,” I said, raising my glass. “And in the most splendid company.”
Her lips curled as she raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
I ordered us a few small plates—warm brie with figs and walnuts, wild mushroom flatbread, and a citrusy beet salad I thought she’d like. She looked quietly relieved not to have to navigate the menu alone.
“You do this well,” she said, watching me with faint amusement.
“You mean ordering food?”
“I mean…taking the lead. The ease, the confidence—it suits you.”
“Don’t be fooled,” I said, voice dipping low. “Last week I locked myself out of my office and had to call campus security to let me in.”
She bit back a laugh.
“In my defense,” I added, smoothing the edge of my voice, “I was a bit distracted that morning. Couldn’t stop thinking about a certain someone.”
Her eyes flicked to mine—sparkling, curious, just a touch shy—and that glance nearly undid me all over again. “Mm-hmm.” She took another sip of champagne. “Still a good look.”
As the jazz trio transitioned into something soft and swaying, I reached for her hand and stood.
She glanced up, surprised. “Where are we going?”
“This,” I said, guiding her toward the dance floor, “is why I booked this place.”
“To feed me mushrooms and fancy cheese?”
I leaned in, brushing my lips against her temple. “Any excuse to hold you in my arms.”
She slid her hand into mine. “You’re making it really hard not to fall for you.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
The lights were low, the room humming with warmth and quiet elegance. As we stepped onto the small dance floor, I settled my hand at her waist and drew her close. She hesitated just a moment before she placed a hand on my shoulder, the other resting lightly in mine.
“I should warn you,” she said as I led her into the first slow step, “I’m not a great dancer.”
“Good thing I am,” I murmured, smiling down at her. “Years of lessons. Hated every minute.”
“Until now?”
“Until now.”
She looked up, a hint of wonder softening her expression. “Was that your charming way of admitting you enjoy this?”
I traced my thumb gently along her spine. “With you? Yes.”
We swayed, the music wrapping around us like silk. Her body fit perfectly against mine, and everything else—the restaurant, the rules, the world waiting back home—faded to the periphery.
The song tapered into a lingering chord, and I let it carry us through one final step before guiding her back to the table.
Gabrielle’s hand remained in mine, her fingers warm and certain.
She was quiet as we slid into the booth—the soft rustle of silk against leather, the brush of her knee against mine.
She reached for her champagne but didn’t drink, only turned the glass, watching the bubbles rise.
Her cheeks were flushed, likely not from the alcohol.
“What is it?” I asked, careful not to press.
She gave me a sideways look—half-curious, half-shy. “How do you know how to do all of this?”
“All of what?”
She gestured—somehow both vague and graceful—toward the chandeliers, the band, the wineglasses. “All this sophisticated glamour. The dancing. The ordering. The bubbles before dinner.”
I smiled faintly. “Old habits. I grew up with it.”
Her brow lifted. “Really?”
I nodded, keeping it light. “Family dinners with too many forks. Weekend luncheons that required blazers. That sort of thing.”
She studied me. “What was it like—growing up like that?”
I traced the rim of my glass, stalling. “Rigidly structured,” I said. “Quiet. Very…polished.”
She didn’t interrupt. Just waited.
“Imagine a house with rooms no one uses, clocks that always chime on time, and staff who know where you’re meant to be before you do.” I glanced at her with the shadow of a smile. “I had everything I needed. Just…not much of it was personal.”
Her hand found mine beneath the table, warm and reassuring.
“I wasn’t unloved,” I said, softer. “Just…managed.”
Gabrielle’s eyes held mine, clear and steady. And for a moment I wanted to say more—to tell her about long corridors and closed doors, vacant conversation over breakfast, the coldness only marble and pride can maintain. But I didn’t.
She squeezed my hand, and I kissed her knuckles, grateful for the distraction.
“Now,” I said, lightening my tone, “tell me something about you. Preferably something scandalous, or I’ll be forced to guess.”
Her smile flickered in the candlelight. She shook her head, the soft waves of her hair spilling over one shoulder. “I’m afraid I’m not half as exciting as you’d hope. My story’s painfully boring.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I said, leaning back, fingers trailing along her arm. “Surely there’s something. What’s the wildest, most reckless thing you’ve ever done?”
“Other than this?” she asked, gesturing between us with a playful, pointed smile.
That smile. That voice. They were going to be the end of me. I nodded, grinning. “Naturally.”
She tilted her head, thinking. “Honestly? Nothing. I’m a notorious rule-follower.”
“Come on,” I said, pressing just enough to see if she’d relent. “Not even a little rebellious streak?”
Her lips curled in amusement as she leaned in, conspiratorial. “I tried a cigarette when I was twelve but hated it. Got drunk once at a party in high school. And accidentally walked out of a store without paying.”
She paused, sipping her champagne with theatrical gravity.
“See?” she said, deadpan. “Boring.”
I laughed, low and easy. “Anything else?”
“I cheated on a math quiz in high school.”
“Ooh.” I grazed my lips along her ear and pressed a soft kiss to her skin. “I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you in class then. Not that I mind.”
Gabrielle turned her face toward mine as candlelight and jazz wrapped intimately around us. “Someone’s going to notice,” she murmured, voice low with amusement.
I brushed my lips against her again, savoring her warmth and scent. “Let them.”
The waiter arrived with our small plates, and I gave him a short nod as he set them down. A second server followed with wine—two perfect stems of Grenache, neither too heavy nor too soft, a deep ruby in the candlelight.
I watched Gabrielle take it all in—the colors, the scents, the warm bread and glistening figs—and felt something dangerously close to contentment settle low in my chest.
She sighed as she took her first bite. “This is decadent,” she said, echoing my thoughts.
“As are you.” I smiled into my wine and took a long sip.
“Careful,” she said, voice low as she sliced a fig in half. “Flattery’s going to my head.”
“That’s probably the wine.” I let my gaze linger. “And it’s not flattery if it’s true.”
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the faint flush on her cheeks as she reached for her wine. She curled her fingers around the stem, poised and elegant, and I couldn’t help but study her a moment longer—how naturally she moved through this night, how completely she held my attention.
“You continue to surprise me,” I said quietly.
Her brow furrowed. “How so?”
“Well…” I shifted, resting my elbow along the back of the booth, brushing my fingers over her shoulder. “You said you’re not used to dating like this. But you carry yourself like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.”
She tilted her head, skeptical. “So I’m not awkward enough for you?”
I smiled. “I mean, you’re confident. Self-possessed. Sexy as hell. And I can’t fathom how no one’s managed to snap you up yet.”
She looked down at her glass, thumb tracing the stem.
“I dated a lot in high school. Had a long-term boyfriend senior year—we thought it was serious.” Her voice softened.
“Then life happened. He went off to college. I stayed back to take care of Dad.” She shrugged.
“We tried the long-distance thing. Didn’t last a semester. ”
“And after that?”
“I dated here and there,” she said. “But as Dad’s ALS progressed, he needed more and more care. I guess I just…put everything else on hold.”
“Understandable,” I said gently.
She glanced up again, her eyes clearer now. “It’s not like I didn’t have…fun,” she added, the corner of her mouth quirking. “I just wasn’t auditioning for anything serious.”
I chuckled, low in my throat. “Well, that clears up one mystery.”
“Oh?”
“I was starting to worry you were some kind of divine anomaly—brilliant, beautiful, confident…and somehow still unattached.” I took a slow sip of wine, savoring the richness before adding, “Though I will say—”
She raised a brow in warning. “Careful.”
I leaned closer, dipping my voice just enough to make her shiver. “For someone without much ‘long-term dating experience,’ you’re remarkably good at…everything else.”
Her eyes narrowed, amused. “Did you just compliment my—”
“Technical proficiency?” I asked, all mock innocence. “I’d never dare.”
She laughed—quiet and wicked—and it sparked behind my ribs. Whatever darkness she’d carried moments ago had lifted, replaced by something warmer. Lighter.
“Just saying,” I murmured, lifting her hand to my lips. “If that’s your baseline…I’m frankly terrified to find out what you’re like when you are auditioning for something serious.”
She tilted her head, studying me, that smile still teasing her lips. “Who says I’m not?”