Chapter 7 #2
The simple question felt loaded with delicious subtext after last night. Was I ready for him? Would I ever be fully prepared for the hunger in his eyes, the strength in his hands, the way he saw through all my defenses to the hidden parts of me?
"Yes," I managed, taking the rose with fingers that trembled slightly. Its scent was rich and heady, unexpectedly complex like the man who offered it.
Mrs. Henderson's expression had transformed from her usual vague disinterest to sharp curiosity. "Daliah," she said, drawing out my name with newfound interest, "you didn't mention you had a . . . friend joining you for lunch."
Before I could respond, Chad turned to her with perfect courtesy. "I hope you don't mind if I steal her away. I've been looking forward to this all morning." His smile was polite but held none of the warmth he'd shown me.
"Not at all," Mrs. Henderson replied, suddenly flustered under his direct attention. She patted her freshly polished nails against her chest. "We were just finishing up."
I glanced toward Trina, unable to resist. She stood frozen, her face a study in conflicting emotions—disbelief warring with jealousy, curiosity with something that looked almost like respect.
Our eyes met briefly, and I saw the exact moment when understanding clicked into place—this was the "someone" I'd mentioned, and he was nothing like what she'd imagined.
"Let me grab my purse," I said, carefully placing the rose on my station.
"Allow me," Chad replied, reaching for my bag that hung on a hook behind my chair.
I quickly helped Mrs. Henderson from her chair, confirming our appointment for next week. She nodded distractedly, her gaze still fixed on Chad with undisguised curiosity.
"Your nail technician is in excellent hands," Chad told her. "I'll have her back in time for her next appointment."
As I slipped off my work smock, revealing the simple blue dress I wore underneath, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright, my posture straighter than usual.
Chad's hand settled at the small of my back as we turned to leave – a light touch that was unmistakably possessive. The warmth of his palm seemed to burn through the fabric of my dress, a brand that marked me as his.
***
T he Old Frog Bistro occupied a corner building with weathered brick and gleaming windows, its wooden sign hand-painted in muted greens and golds. Inside, the atmosphere was all warm woods and soft lighting, with crisp white tablecloths and the gentle clink of silverware against china.
"Reservation for Wakes," Chad told the hostess, whose professional smile warmed considerably as she took in his broad shoulders and confident stance.
"Of course, sir. Right this way."
She led us to a table near a window, where dappled light filtered through potted plants hanging in the alcove. Chad inspected the table with a quick, assessing gaze, then frowned slightly.
"Is there a problem, sir?" the hostess asked.
"This table seems a bit unsteady," he said, giving it a gentle test with his hand. "Do you have another available? I wouldn't want our drinks to spill."
The minor correction was delivered with such calm authority that the hostess immediately apologized and guided us to a better table in a quiet corner.
I watched, fascinated by how effortlessly Chad created a secure, comfortable space for us—checking that my chair was steady before seating me, ensuring we weren't beneath an air conditioning vent that might leave me cold.
"Is the temperature comfortable for you?" he asked quietly as the hostess departed.
I nodded, unexpectedly touched by his attentiveness to details I wouldn't have thought to consider.
"So," he said once we were settled, his gray eyes warm with amusement, "I think I made quite an impression on your colleagues."
I laughed, feeling the last of my tension from the salon melt away. "You could say that. Trina practically swallowed her tongue."
"Trina being the one who was giving you those looks?"
I tilted my head, surprised. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you, Little One. Including who treats you well and who doesn't." His voice remained casual, but there was steel beneath the words. "She seemed . . . surprised to see us together."
"She was." I traced the edge of my water glass with my fingertip. "She made some assumptions about what kind of man would be interested in me."
Chad's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he kept his expression neutral. "Her narrow vision doesn't define your worth."
Our server appeared with menus, temporarily halting our conversation. The offerings were written in elegant script—comfort food elevated to bistro sophistication, with prices to match. I automatically scanned for the less expensive options, a habit formed by years of careful budgeting.
Chad watched me over the top of his menu, those perceptive eyes missing nothing. "Order whatever your heart desires, Daliah," he said. "Don't even look at the prices. Daddy wants you to have exactly what you want."
The endearment, spoken low enough that only I could hear it, sent a warm shiver through me. In this public setting, it felt like a secret handshake, a reminder of the deeper connection we shared.
The truffle mushroom pasta caught my eye—rich, indulgent, hardly diet food.
My stomach growled appreciatively, but years of ingrained food anxiety made me hesitate.
Before Chad, before last night, I would have automatically chosen something "sensible"—a salad, perhaps, to avoid judgmental glances or unwanted comments.
"See something you like?" Chad asked.
"The pasta looks amazing, but . . ." I trailed off, my old insecurities surfacing despite my best efforts to silence them.
"But?" he prompted gently.
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. This was Chad—the man who had seen me naked, vulnerable, raw with need. If I couldn't be honest with him about this, what was the point of any of it?
"Chad . . . Daddy . . ." I dropped my voice to ensure privacy. "Do you . . . do you want me to lose weight?"
The question hung between us, more revealing in its way than my physical nakedness had been. Chad immediately set his menu down and reached across the table to take my hand. His expression was earnest, his eyes holding mine with unwavering intensity.
"Daliah," he said, his voice firm but incredibly gentle, "you are perfect to me, exactly as you are.
I love your curves, I love the softness of you, I love the strength your body has.
My only desire for you is that you are healthy, happy, and that you feel beautiful and confident in your own skin.
What the scale says, or what anyone else thinks, means absolutely nothing to me. You are my beautiful girl."
The sincerity in his voice, the absolute conviction in his eyes, made my throat tighten with emotion. A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. Chad reached across the table, his thumb gently catching the droplet.
"The pasta sounds perfect," he said, his touch lingering on my cheek. "And maybe we could share the chocolate cake for dessert? I have a bit of a sweet tooth."
His casual suggestion—deliberately steering us toward indulgence rather than restriction—broke through the last of my hesitation. "I'd like that," I said, my voice steadier now.
When our server returned, I ordered the truffle mushroom pasta without a hint of apology or qualification. Chad's approving smile warmed me more than the restaurant's carefully calibrated ambient temperature ever could.
Our food arrived steaming and aromatic. The pasta was as delicious as it had looked on the menu—decadent with cream, earthy with mushrooms, fragrant with herbs.
Chad had ordered a perfectly cooked steak, and we fell into comfortable conversation as we ate.
He told me stories about his early days in martial arts, and his time in the military, and I shared anecdotes about my most eccentric salon clients.
It struck me how easy it was to talk to him. Despite the intensity of our connection, despite the power dynamic that thrummed beneath the surface of our interactions, there was a simple companionship between us that felt natural and unforced.
"You have a little . . ." Chad leaned forward, brushing his thumb across the corner of my mouth where a bit of sauce had lingered.
The gesture was both intimate and caregiving, his touch gentle but sure.
He brought his thumb to his own lips afterward, tasting the sauce with a small smile that made my stomach flip.
Over coffee and shared chocolate cake—rich, dark, and decadent—Chad reached for my hand again, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a casual caress.
"Are you free for me this evening, Little One?" he asked, his voice dropping to that private register that seemed to speak directly to something deep inside me. "I was hoping we could spend some quiet time together."
"Yes," I replied, my heart filling with anticipation. "I'd love that."
His fingers squeezed mine gently, a promise of care to come. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise washing over me like warm honey.
The chocolate on my tongue, the warmth of his hand on mine, the certainty in his eyes – it all blended together into a moment of perfect contentment, a feeling of being exactly where I belonged.
***
T he academy looked different after hours—quieter, more intimate, the training mats bathed in the soft glow of security lighting rather than the bright fluorescents used during classes.