Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Not long after, we arrive at a small Italian restaurant. A red awning with the name Il Piacere arches above the oversized wooden doors. Harrison opens one and gestures for me to step inside.
“You never told me if you liked Italian,” he says as I squeeze past him. “Hopefully you do, or this is going to be very awkward.”
I look around, in awe. It feels like we’ve left London entirely and stepped into southern Italy. I would like to imagine it’s like this. It must be.
The walls are a soft off-white, with running arches along the side that guide the eye to the back wall, stacked high with neatly placed bottles of wine. Dark wood tables contrast the light, each set with nothing but a single candle flickering in the center.
Above us, the ceiling blooms with trailing greenery, purple flowers, and delicate lights tangled throughout.
They make their way across, twisting down a column in the center of the floor.
I’ve never seen a layout this breathtaking.
I take my phone out and snap a few pictures, hoping it’s not too weird.
The restaurant hums with quiet romance. Hushed conversations and the clinking of silverware against the plates blend seamlessly with the background acoustic music.
A hostess grabs two menus and leads us to the left, away from the main dining area. We follow her into a tucked-away terrace—only four tables, completely empty. Harrison pulls out my chair before sitting across from me.
“I’ll be back for your drink order in a few minutes,” she says, eyes lingering a little too long on Harrison.
He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes on me.
“She’s into you,” I say, once she’s out of earshot.
He shrugs. “It comes with the job.”
She’s tall, with straight blonde hair and crystal-blue eyes. Her porcelain skin wouldn't last a second under the California sun.
"She’s also very pretty," I add.
“So are you,” he replies, without a second thought.
He’s reading the wine menu while I shrug off my insecurities and blatantly admire his features. It doesn’t seem to bother him––he’s probably used to people staring.
“Want anything specific to drink?”
I shake my head. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
He signals the model-worthy waitress over, who struts over like we’re sitting front row at Milan Fashion Week. She’s batting her eyelashes at him, disregarding my existence completely.
I don’t catch a word of what they’re saying. I’m too focused on sending her all of my bad vibes. Still glaring as she walks away. I only realize Harrison’s been talking when he chuckles.
“Sorry—what?”
He smirks and raises one eyebrow. That damn eyebrow. “Julia Thomas, don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
I roll my eyes, hand to my chest like he’s accused me of a crime. His playful demeanor is enticing.
“Me? Jealous?” I lean over the table and lower my voice. “I was making sure she wasn’t going to poison my food, given that I’m on what seems to be a date with the man she probably desires most.”
I try to remain serious, but he breaks into a grin. Then, he’s laughing. Whatever’s in the air must be contagious because I end up laughing too.
Noticing the noise, the waitress returns with our bottle of wine. I tense up automatically. Harrison notices. Without a word, he reaches over the table and takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
It shouldn’t matter. This isn’t a real date. But it works. I exhale and melt back into my chair.
“Would you like to taste it?” she asks him, showcasing the bottle.
“She’ll be the one tasting it.”
She’s forced to turn and face me for the first time since we arrived. She pours about an inch of wine into my glass.
I’ve never been the one offered the taste test before. In my last relationship, this was very much a man’s job.
I’ve no idea what I'm supposed to taste for, but I’ve seen enough movies to fake it.
I swirl the wine in my glass, the ruby liquid staining the sides. Then, I lift it up to my nose. It smells like flowers and blackberries, with a pinch of something sweet.
Finally, I take a sip. It’s delicious. Full of flavor, enveloping, and with a slightly bitter aftertaste that leaves you wanting one more glass.
I raise my eyebrows at Harrison, who nods like he already knew I’d love it.
“We’ll take it,” I tell her.
She sets it on the table, along with the cork, and takes her cue to leave.
“Good choice?” he asks.
“I had no idea what I was tasting for, but that is really good wine,” I say, taking another sip. “This is the first time I’ve been the one trying.”
“Really?” His brow furrows. I nod.
“This ex of yours… what a gem,” he mutters sarcastically.
“Let’s not get into that right now,” I say, shaking it off. “If you behave, maybe we can get into the heavy stuff with the main course.”
“Anything specific you’re craving tonight?” he asks, tossing in a wink.
“Why don’t you pick for the both of us? Surprise me.”
“Adventurous. I like it.”
“After the wine, I trust I’m going to enjoy whatever you order.”
Not long after, we’re served a beautifully plated burrata salad. A creamy ball of fresh cheese sits atop roasted cherry tomatoes, framed by droplets of pesto sauce and a swish of olive oil.
The waitress seems to have taken the hint—she doesn’t linger.
“How come she’s not freaking out about you being here?” I ask. “She knows who you are.”
“She can’t.”
I give him a questioning look. He clarifies.
“People like me come here because we can get the privacy we want. The owner’s connected with the celebrity crowd. Staff know the rules. She wouldn’t be the first to get fired for not being discreet.”
“Emma wouldn’t last a single shift here then,” I laugh.
He mixes the salad and serves me a generous portion. I take a bite and immediately groan. Louder than intended.
Harrison looks down at his plate. His jaw tightens like he’s using every ounce of willpower to keep his composure.
“Julia, you’re making this so difficult,” he says, his eyes now visibly darker than before.
I try not to smile.
“This is not as amusing to me as it is to you,” he adds, his voice so calculated it gives me goosebumps. “I promised I wouldn’t play dirty, but if you’re not going to do the same, there’s a good chance we’ll end up at my place tonight—and I won’t be the one begging to go.”
Chills ripple down my spine. He means every word. And unfortunately for him, it has the opposite effect of whatever self-control he was going for.
Now, all I can think about is what Joshua Harrison’s bed looks like. It’s probably big. Definitely trouble.
“That might not be the worst idea,” I say, a display of false bravado.
I expect him to grow more flustered, but instead, his features soften. He shakes his head.
“It is,” he says. “Sure, it’ll be the best night of your life. But then, you’ll go back home. You’ll overthink it. And who knows what happens after that?”
I nod, quiet. He’s not wrong. It sucks, but he’s not wrong.
“I don’t think I could do a one-night stand with you,” he continues.
My cheeks turn redder than the wine. I don’t know what to say. He doesn’t make it a big deal. He keeps eating like he didn’t just throw a live emotional grenade on the table.
“You called me Julia,” I break the silence with the first thing I can think of.
He looks up, amused. “Isn’t that your name?”
“Nobody calls me that at home. It’s weird,” I say, picking at my napkin. “People call me Jules, Jay, Jay-Tee, but never Julia.”
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind,” he smirks. “If I ever call you Julia again, you’ll know I’m being serious.”
Our main courses are served shortly after: baked stuffed rigatoni and a vegetable lasagna sit at the center of the table to share.
“It smells like heaven,” I say, my mouth watering. The fresh basil scent fills the room.
“Dig in.”
I scoop a bite of rigatoni. Strings of cheese stretch from the dish to my mouth. The Bolognese is rich, melt-in-your-mouth good. I close my eyes and stifle a groan.
When I open them, he’s staring like I’m the main course. Delight flickers in his eyes.
“You seem to know the menu pretty well,” I say, curiously. “This could have easily been the chef’s recommendation.”
“This is my favorite Italian in all of London.”
“Ahh. This is where you bring all your conquests,” I tease.
“So you are one of my conquests then?"
“You wish.”
He just smiles and nods.
“You’re the first girl I’ve brought here,” he says, sincere. “I’ve never wanted to risk this place becoming somewhere where I can’t go without being swarmed by the press.”
“How are you so sure that I’m to be trusted?”
“It’s been three weeks since we met, and no one has come looking for me at The Anchor.” Good reasoning.
“What about your ex?”
“She only wanted to go to places where we’d be seen,” he shrugs. “I know. It seems pretty obvious now looking back that she was just using me.”
“I like to think it’s the good people who get hurt because we try to see the best in everyone.”
“I was so naive,” he sighs.
I sense this might not be something he wants to dwell on, so I let the moment breathe.
“She wasn’t even nice to be around,” he adds. “I tried to avoid her, even that night when we both ended up at the club. Before I knew it, I was pinned to the wall for looking at her wrong.”
“Well… I might have done my research,” I admit, lips curving. “And you didn’t need any help getting out of it.”
He smiles, but it’s tight. He’s not proud. Just resigned.
“If it makes you feel any better,” I say, “my ex didn’t deserve a second of my time, and I gave him just about eight years.”
“So why did you stay?”
“At the time, I couldn’t see anything was wrong,” I say slowly. “My friends warned me, but I kept thinking he’d grow out of it. We started dating as freshmen. I thought the craziness, the rudeness, the fights were… immaturity.”
I glance down, letting out a breath.
“Freshmen… so you were what, eighteen?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Young and stupid.”
“Then four years passed. We moved in together. Add another four onto that. And nothing changed.”