Chapter 11
LILA
I check my watch for the fifth time in three minutes, clutching my purse like it might try to escape. Luciano's glows across the street—all warm light and elegant facade—looking about ten times fancier than I remembered from Tessa's Instagram stories.
"I think I'm going to throw up," I mutter, tugging at the hem of the green silk dress.
"You look amazing," Tessa assures me, perfect as always in her cashmere sweater. "The dress is working overtime for you."
"It's not the dress I'm worried about." I gesture at the restaurant. "Look at this place! There are actual crystal chandeliers in there. I bet they charge you just for looking at the menu."
Tessa rolls her eyes. "It's nice, not extortionate. Besides, he's the one who asked you out."
"Yeah, but I insisted on picking the place. What if it's too expensive for him?"
"It's not that expensive, Lila. Promise. And if he can't afford this… well, what has he been doing for the last 30 years?" She pauses. "Okay, remember, I'm coming in five minutes after you. I'll sit at the bar where I can see your table. If you need rescuing, just touch your ear three times."
"Or I could text you 'help' like a normal person."
"Where's the fun in that? Besides, what if he takes your phone? Serial killers are crafty."
"You're not helping." My stomach knots tighter. A couple enters Luciano's—the woman in a sleek black dress, the man confidently handing his keys to the valet. They look like they belong. I decidedly do not.
"Seriously though," Tessa says, her voice softening. "You deserve this. A nice dinner, some adult conversation that doesn't involve asking if they want another round."
"I have adult conversations," I protest weakly.
"Your last date was with that film student who spent two hours explaining why The Godfather is secretly a comedy."
"Fair point." I check my watch again. 7:27. Three minutes until I'm supposed to be inside. "What if?—"
"Nope." Tessa spins me toward the restaurant and gives me a gentle shove. "No more what-ifs. Go get your hot detective. And remember?—"
"Touch my ear three times if I need extraction," I finish for her. "Or if he tries to mansplain The Godfather to me."
"Thatta girl."
I take one last look at her—my safety net—and step off the curb.
My heels click against the pavement, the sound echoing my pounding heart.
As I cross the street, I spot him through the window, already seated at a corner table.
He's wearing a crisp navy button-down that stretches across his shoulders, making my mouth go dry.
For a second, I consider turning around and sprinting back to my tiny apartment. But then Dane looks up, his eyes finding mine through the glass, and something in his gaze locks me in place. He smiles—just a small quirk of his lips—and suddenly my feet are moving again.
I push through the door, the warm air scented with garlic and wine enveloping me. The hostess raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.
"I'm meeting someone," I say, gesturing vaguely toward Dane. "He's already here."
"Of course." She smiles politely. "Right this way, miss."
As I follow her between tables of people who look like they have investment portfolios and summer homes, I silently curse Tessa for talking me into this place. Dane probably thinks I'm high-maintenance now. Great first impression, Lila. Real smooth.
Here goes nothing.
The hostess steps aside, gesturing to our table, and I'm suddenly face-to-face with Dane Wolfe.
He rises in one fluid motion, all six-plus feet of him unfolding like some predatory origami.
Up close, he's even more intimidating—those eyes catching the candlelight, shoulders filling out his shirt in ways that should be illegal.
"Lila," he says, my name coming out like gravel wrapped in silk.
"Hi," I manage, clutching my purse like it's a life preserver. Real eloquent, Marks. Four years of journalism school and that's what you come up with?
Before I can embarrass myself further, he moves around the table and pulls out my chair. The gesture catches me off guard—it's old-fashioned in a way that makes my chest do weird things.
"Thanks," I murmur, sliding into the seat.
Silence descends as soon as he takes his own chair. The kind of silence that makes you suddenly aware of every tiny sound—the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversations, the blood rushing in your ears. I fiddle with my napkin, smoothing it over my lap three times before realizing what I'm doing.
"This place is nice," I say, wincing at how basic I sound.
"It is." He nods, eyes scanning the room in that careful way he has, like he's noting exits and threats.
More silence. I take a gulp of water. He studies the wine list.
"So," we both say simultaneously, then stop.
"You first," I offer.
"I was just going to ask what brought you to New York." He sets the menu down, giving me his full attention in a way that's almost uncomfortable. "You're not from here originally."
I tense slightly. "How'd you know that?"
Something flickers across his face. "Your accent. It slips through sometimes. Southern, but not deep South."
"Oh." My shoulders relax marginally. "Yeah, New Orleans. I came here for school, stayed for... everything else." I gesture vaguely at the city beyond the windows. "What about you? Are you a native New Yorker?"
"Born and raised." He says it with no particular pride. "Left for the Marines, came back after."
"Why the Marines?"
His mouth tightens slightly. "Needed discipline. Structure. Distance."
"From?"
"Family complications." He deflects smoothly, then diverts. "How'd you end up bartending?"
"Turns out journalism degrees don't pay the bills until you're actually, you know, a journalist." I shrug. "Plus, good tips, I'm good at it, and I know how to listen."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "I've noticed."
"And you're a PI. Bet you hear more secrets than I do."
"Different kind of secrets." He takes a sip of water. "Yours are probably more interesting."
"Doubt it. Unless you find drunk finance bros crying about their exes fascinating." I break open a piece of bread. "What made you become a detective after the military?"
"Good at finding things. Better at finding people." He studies me over the rim of his glass. "What kind of journalism are you interested in?"
"Investigative. I want to expose things people try to hide." I meet his gaze steadily. "Things that shouldn't stay buried."
Something shifts in his expression—interest, maybe respect.
"What's your thesis about?" he asks.
"How powerful institutions protect predators." The words come out with more bite than I intend.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he's fitting puzzle pieces together. "Sounds personal."
"The best journalism usually is." I redirect before he can probe further. "So, ex-Marine turned private eye—that's pretty intense. Do you ever miss the structure of military life?"
"Sometimes. Not the early mornings." He almost smiles again. "Or the food."
"What's the weirdest case you've worked on?"
This time, the smile actually breaks through—subtle but transformative. My stomach does that weird flippy thing again.
"Woman hired me to follow her husband. Turned out he wasn't cheating—he was taking secret ballet lessons to surprise her on their anniversary."
I laugh, the tension between us easing slightly. "Seriously?"
"Pirouettes and everything."
"And here I thought PIs only dealt with seedy motel stakeouts."
"Those too." He tilts his head. "Your turn. Weirdest bar story?"
"Weirdest bar story..." I tap my chin, considering. "This wasn't at The Old Haunt, but back when I worked at this dive bar in the East Village. We had this regular—like, every Thursday at 8 PM on the dot. Always ordered a gin and tonic, always left a five-dollar tip. Super quiet, kept to himself."
Dane leans forward slightly, his eyes focused entirely on me. It's intense having all that attention directed my way.
"One night, he comes in with this bulging backpack. I'm thinking, great, either he's about to rob us or he's living out of that thing. But he just sits down, orders his usual, and starts pulling out... socks."
"Socks?" One eyebrow lifts slightly.
"Not just any socks. Handknitted, rainbow-striped knee-high socks.
Dozens of pairs. Turns out, our mysterious regular was this famous underground sock designer with a cult following.
He'd been working on his fall collection at our bar for months because—and I quote—'the sticky floors inspire me.
'" I roll my eyes. "By closing time, he'd sold $3,000 worth of socks to other customers.
Handed me a pair and a hundred-dollar tip. "
His mouth quirks. "Did you wear them?"
"Are you kidding? Of course, I did. They're hideous. But they're the warmest socks I own, so..."
"You still have them." It's not a question.
I shrug, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "What can I say? Bartenders are sentimental."
The waiter arrives with our wine, momentarily saving me from Dane's too-perceptive gaze. After he pours and leaves, Dane swirls his glass but doesn't drink.
"What about journalism? Any stories there?"
"Oh God," I laugh, relaxing a little. "Senior year, I was researching this piece on urban legends around campus. You know, haunted dorms, creepy professors, that kind of thing."
"Standard college fare."
"Exactly. But then I heard about this anonymous Twitter account that was supposedly run by a campus squirrel."
His brow furrows. "A what?"
"A squirrel. Like, an actual squirrel supposedly tweeting about campus life. Everyone thought it was just some student being clever, but the tweets were... weirdly specific. Details about closed-door administrative meetings, faculty gossip, stuff no student would know."