Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
A ndrea
I came downstairs in the green dress Lila had loaned me—and even altered, with frightening efficiency at her sewing machine, for my figure—at six o’clock the next night. I felt my face start to warm at the sound of conversation in the living room, and my blush came into full bloom when I found Dylan already there, talking to Devin and Greta.
“You’re taking our Andrea to the Trattoria?” Greta was asking, with surprise and what I thought might be a hint of disapproval in her voice. “For a first date?”
I had heard from Lila and Lydia that the Burger Barn was where associates almost always took subservient girls first, so as not to spend too much money on them if it didn’t work out. Lydia had opined that most associates wanted to make sure a girl would be happy with that kind of food, and not put on airs as if she were too good for it.
I had seen the Trattoria, down Main Street a little ways, when Ethan had taken me out. It looked a lot fancier than anything else in Cato. Lila said that it mostly served elders and their wives, and really, I should get used to the Burger Barn; Bill and Hank took her and Lydia there every time they went out. Neither of them had ever seen the inside of the Trattoria.
I paused just out of sight of the living room, my heart racing. I knew I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to know what Dylan would say.
“Yes, I’m taking Andrea to the Trattoria,” Dylan replied, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine. There was a hint of defiance in his tone as he continued, “And I don’t mind people knowing I think she’s special.”
My breath caught in my throat at his words. Special? He thought I was special? A warm glow spread through my chest, and I felt my cheeks flush even hotter.
“Well,” Devin’s voice rumbled, “you certainly have every right to choose where you take Andrea. But I hope she won’t get any ideas from this.”
I frowned at Devin’s words, unsure what he meant by ‘ideas.’ But before I could ponder it further, I heard Greta clear her throat.
“Andrea?” she called. “Are you coming down, dear?”
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I stepped into the living room. The sight that greeted me nearly took my breath away. Dylan stood up from the couch, and I felt my heart skip a beat. He looked dazzlingly handsome in a crisp blue button-down shirt that brought out the color of his eyes, paired with dark slacks that hugged his muscular legs. His wavy hair was neatly styled, and a hint of stubble along his jawline made him look ruggedly attractive.
Before I could say anything, he had crossed the room in a few long strides. To my surprise, he wrapped me in a warm hug. The scent of his cologne—a subtle, woodsy fragrance—enveloped me, and I felt my body relax into his embrace. His strong arms around me felt so right, so safe. It sent conflicting feelings racing through my system—comfort and security mingled with a spark of desire that made my pulse quicken.
“You look beautiful, Andrea,” Dylan murmured as he pulled back, his hazel eyes roaming appreciatively over my dress. The warmth in his gaze made me feel both cherished and revealed, and I ducked my head shyly.
“Thank you,” I whispered, hardly daring to meet his eyes. “You look very handsome too.”
Dylan’s smile widened, and he offered me his arm. “Shall we?”
As I placed my hand in the crook of his elbow, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement. Despite my nervousness, I had a feeling this date would be very different from my evening with Ethan.
Devin cleared his throat, drawing our attention back to him and Greta on the couch. “I’d like you home by ten,” he said, his tone stern.
I felt my stomach drop at the early curfew. The evening had barely begun, and already it felt like it would be cut short. But before I could voice any disappointment, Greta spoke up.
“Oh, I don’t think that should be a problem, dear,” she said, a knowing smile playing at her lips. Her eyes flicked between Dylan and me, a glint of amusement in their depths. “I’m sure Dylan will want to take Andrea up to her bedroom when they get home.”
My face blazed with heat at her words, the implication clear. Images from my night with Ethan flashed through my mind—his rough hands, his demanding cock. But when I glanced up at Dylan, I saw only kindness in his eyes.
“We’ll have to see how Andrea is feeling at the end of the date,” he said softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. His voice was warm but firm, making it clear he wouldn’t be pressured into anything, and meant to make certain I wouldn’t either.
The drive to the Trattoria was short but really quite pretty. Unlike Ethan’s, Dylan’s truck seemed clean and well-maintained. As we drove down Main Street, the setting sun painted the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the quaint storefronts. Cato seemed like it might be a place where even a normal person would want to settle down.
Dylan sauntered around the front of the truck to open my door for me. The scent of garlic and herbs wafted from the Trattoria, making my mouth water. The restaurant’s facade had a red and white striped awning and window boxes overflowing with colorful flowers.
Inside, the atmosphere felt cozy and intimate. Soft Italian music played in the background, and the walls bore vintage posters and black-and-white photographs of the Italian countryside. Candles flickered on each table.
The hostess, a petite woman with a welcoming smile, led us to a secluded corner table. Dylan pulled out my chair for me, his hand brushing lightly against my back as I sat down. The touch, though brief, sent a thrill down my spine.
As we settled into our seats, I couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed. The intimate setting, the soft candlelight, Dylan’s attentive gaze—it was all so different from my date with Ethan. I fiddled nervously with my napkin, unsure of what to say.
Dylan seemed to sense my discomfort. He cleared his throat, his own fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the table. “So, um,” he began, then paused, as if searching for the right words. “How are you finding Cato so far?”
I gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “It’s… different,” I said carefully, not wanting to offend. “Very quiet compared to the city.”
Dylan nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I can imagine. Must be quite an adjustment.”
An awkward silence fell between us. I took a sip of water, desperately trying to think of something to say. Dylan seemed equally at a loss, his eyes darting around the restaurant as if seeking inspiration.
Finally, he turned back to me, his expression softening. “Andrea,” he said gently, “what do you like to do? Or, I guess I should ask, what did you like to do in the city? I’m sure you don’t get to do it now, whatever it is.”
His words, spoken with genuine curiosity and a hint of sympathy, caught me off guard. I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Actually, no,” I protested. “I do get to do something I enjoy. I like to watch old movies, and Greta lets me do that when my housemaid duties are done.”
Dylan’s face lit up with interest. “Old movies? That’s great! What kind do you like best?”
I felt a warmth spread through my chest at his enthusiasm. “I love old musicals,” I told him, my voice growing animated as I spoke about my silly little passion. “There’s just something, you know, magical about them—the music, the dancing, the… I don’t know. They kind of, like, transport you to another world.”
“Musicals, huh?” Dylan leaned forward, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I guess I don’t really know very much about them, but Singin’ in the Rain has been my favorite movie since I was little. Does that, you know, count?”
I could hardly contain my delight. “Of course it counts! Singin’ in the Rain is a classic. Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, Donald O’Connor—they’re all fantastic in it.” I paused, wondering how far I should take it, how geeky I should get. Dylan’s smile made me keep going, though. “What’s your favorite song from the movie?”
Dylan’s face grew puzzled, as if I should have known the answer. “Well, I mean, ‘Singin’ in the Rain,’ of course. It’s just so… joyful, you know? And the… the what’s it called, you know… the…”
His face lit up suddenly, and it sent another surge of warmth rising in my chest.
“Choreography!” he said. “That’s it. When Gene Kelly does all that with his umbrella… I could watch that a million times.”
I couldn’t resist teasing him gently. “Oh, come on, that’s so basic! ‘Good Morning’ is a much better song.”
Dylan laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t actually mean that,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “You just want to have something to argue about, don’t you?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot, caught off guard by his playful accusation. For a moment, I considered doubling down on my preference for ‘Good Morning,’ but something in Dylan’s knowing smile made me relent.
“Okay, you got me,” I admitted, ducking my head shyly. “I do love ‘Singin’ in the Rain.’ It’s impossible not to smile when you watch that scene.”
As I looked back up at Dylan, I felt a sudden shift inside me. The warmth in his hazel eyes, the gentle teasing in his voice, the way he saw right through my attempt at playful debate—it all came together in a realization that hit me like a thunderbolt. I was falling in love with him.
It wasn’t just his handsome features or his kind demeanor. There was something about the way he carried himself, the quiet confidence that radiated from him. He didn’t need to raise his voice or make grand gestures to command attention. His presence alone was enough.
I thought back to how he had stood up to Devin and Greta, insisting on taking me to the Trattoria. How he had gently but firmly shut down any expectations of what might happen after our date. Dylan knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it, but he also respected my boundaries and comfort.
As we continued chatting, I found myself hanging on his every word, relishing the way he gently guided the conversation. When I started to ramble about another musical, he listened attentively but then smoothly steered us back to the main topic. It was subtle, but I could feel his quiet control over our interaction.
Suddenly, an image flashed through my mind—Dylan’s strong hands on my body, guiding me over his knee. I imagined the firm pressure of his palm against my bottom, administering a loving but stern spanking. The thought sent a jolt of heat straight to my core, making me squirm in my seat.
Confused and overwhelmed by the intensity of my feelings and the unexpected turn of my thoughts, I fell silent. My cheeks burned as I stared down at my plate, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions swirling inside me. How could I be thinking about Dylan spanking me? Why did the idea excite me so much?
I barely noticed as the waiter came to take our order, letting Dylan choose for both of us. My mind was too preoccupied with these new, confusing desires and the growing realization that I was falling hard for the man sitting across from me.
Without my even being fully conscious of it, half my brain started to work on ways to derail the date. My rising affection for Dylan felt terribly dangerous. Together, his quiet, confident dominance and my apparent Stockholm syndrome for the crazy New Modesty culture seemed like a recipe for disaster.
But as our delicious meal proceeded, the sheer pleasantness of the occasion—my handsome date, the romantic restaurant, the contented other couples, all older, who sat at the nearby tables—kept making me delay the moment when I made sure Dylan wouldn’t want a second date. I found myself asking for more details about the robofarm, and growing even more interested at the way Dylan answered, making the minutiae of automated agriculture seem exciting.
“You should have been a teacher,” I told him, suddenly, before I could stop myself.
Dylan smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.
“Nah,” he said. “I’d miss being outdoors. But I don’t mind teaching people. If they’re as beautiful as you are, anyway, Andrea.”