Chapter 9
ZACH
The valet takes my keys and disappears with the car, and for a moment I just stand there, adjusting my cufflinks, reminding myself to breathe.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen years since Maya vanished from my life without a word, leaving behind questions I never stopped asking. And tonight we’re having dinner together.
I offered to pick her up, but she declined. Said she’d meet me here, so I brace myself, knowing exactly what I’m walking into, because I already know that this isn’t going to be easy.
I’ve picked a hot new trendy place, with great food and great vibes, and I hope she likes it. The restaurant is ultra-exclusive, with great views and has an intimate vibe. Plush velvet seats in charcoal tones. Warm, soft amber lighting. Orchids arranged with precision.
It’s where I take my dates when I want to impress, and though Maya has made it perfectly clear that she’s not my date—I know that, and I wouldn’t rush to make those judgments—I still want her to like this. Us meeting again means a lot to me, and I just want her to like this place.
The concierge opens the door for me and I walk in, but stop and stare.
Maya is standing inside the entrance staring up at the high ceilings and the gilded artwork. The ambiance here is one of quiet luxury; it doesn’t scream decadence, it just is.
She looks composed and serene, yet guarded, as if she, too, is bracing herself for this evening.
As if she feels it, she suddenly turns and catches me staring.
The air whooshes out of my lungs. She looks amazing, and she’s wearing a black satin trouser suit.
It’s clean cut, and elegant. Understated, yet eye-catching.
I walk toward her, unable to dim my smile, my gaze taking in all of her. Her hair is pulled back loose and soft, while wayward strands frame her face. Her eyes are made up in smoky charcoal and glitter; a stark contrast to her nude lipstick.
I’m already bedazzled.
“You look lovely.” I reach for her hand, but she doesn’t offer it. Instead, her fingers curl into fists.
Keep away.
I receive the signal loud and clear. I let my hand drop. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure you’re charming and have perfect dinner etiquette, but you don’t have to bother with any of that tonight,” she says breezily, holding her clutch bag close to her body.
“Noted.” I adjust my tie, feeling thrown off. I’m accustomed to things going smoothly, but it feels like Maya is throwing barbed wire at every step of the way.
Her quick glance doesn’t go unnoticed. I think she likes what she sees—my tailored dark jacket, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. Casual and effortless. I want her to see me at my best.
She looks down at her trouser suit and shrugs. “I’m feeling a little underdressed.”
Is she kidding me? She looks ravishing. Not over the top. Just perfect. I know she’s not fishing for compliments. She’s not that kind of person. “On the contrary. You look like you belong here,” I tell her.
Her gaze sweeps over the surroundings again. “Are you a regular here? I imagine this must be one of your haunts.”
Her whole demeanor puzzles me. I didn’t expect it would be this difficult from the start. It’s not the conversation I want to be having. This feels sharp and prickly.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “It’s one of my favorite regular places.”
She huffs softly and I immediately regret saying ‘regular’. She’s not impressed or amused by this place.
I cough lightly. “You should have taken a seat at the table instead of waiting for me here.”
“I wasn’t waiting for you here,” she chortles. “This is a beautiful place. I’m taking it all in.”
The hostess approaches. “Good evening, Mr. Knight. Let me show you to your table.” She gives Maya a warm smile, and I, out of habit, rest a light hand at Maya’s elbow as we follow the hostess through the restaurant. Maya flinches, like the touch is too much.
Keep away.
I withdraw immediately, reminding myself to keep my distance and to give her the space she seems so badly to need. At the table, I pull out her chair, but she puts her hand in front, halting me.
“I can pull out my own chair, thanks. You don’t need to fuss over me.”
“Okay. Sorry. I just ...”
“I’m sure you do this all the time,” she says, sitting down. “You don’t need to ... perform,” she adds. “I know it’s customary. It’s etiquette for you.”
“It’s just manners,” I mumble vaguely, hating that the bad start to our evening is getting worse.
We sit down across from each other. Candlelight flickers between us and a small vase of flowers sits in the middle over a white linen tablecloth. Maybe it’s too intimate. Too luxurious. Too much. She sits quietly, her hands in her lap, looking around.
The server pours water into our glasses.
She takes a sip, her gaze drifting everywhere but to me. To the walls. The candle. The flowers.
She couldn’t make it more obvious that she doesn’t want this.
I realize, suddenly, that this might all be wrong.
That the very things I thought would make her feel special are doing the opposite.
Maybe this is too much for her. Maybe trying to impress her, to show her how much she means to me, is having the opposite effect and has left her feeling out of her depth.
What happened to her?
Life seems to have dulled her sparkle, or maybe this is what happens when people grow up. I look at my brothers and me, and can’t say that we’re a bundle of laughs either.
“I can tell you don’t want to be here. Would you rather go someplace else?” I suggest.
“I agreed to one dinner,” she says. Then, “It feels like you’re trying too hard, like you’re trying to impress me, but I don’t need to be impressed.”
“I just wanted us to have a nice time,” I reply. “Seeing you again, it reminded me of a time in my life that wasn’t as dark as it had been.”
Her eyes flick to mine and she blinks. It feels like she’s about to say something, but she opens the menu and studies it. I pick up the wine list and casually peruse it. If we can’t make small talk, I might as well get the food ordered. “Do you care for any particular wine?”
“Not really.”
Hmmm.
I order a bottle of the Puligny-Montrachet, trusting the sommelier’s slight nod of approval. “What’s going on with you?” I ask gently. She’s still studying the menu. “You seem unhappy.”
She laughs, short and humorless. “Unhappy?” She shakes her head. “I’m just trying to figure out what to eat.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” I remark.
“It’s just a menu, I’m sure I can handle it.” She studies me for a moment. “Look at you. Playing protector after all this time.”
“I’d protect you in a heartbeat, always.”
Her brow furrows. There’s something there. Something about our past that bothers her.
“You were there for me when I needed someone,” I explain, softly. “That doesn’t disappear just because years pass. At least, it doesn’t for me.”
“I survive just fine on my own. Always have.”
She’s defensive, and short, and trying to make conversation seems almost impossible.
I’m relieved when the wine arrives. The server pours a small amount for me to taste.
I swirl it around in my glass, suddenly feeling so self-conscious because Maya is watching me, and now every movement I make feels exaggerated.
She’ll think I’m an entitled prick.
“That’s good. Thank you,” I say to the server who starts to pour wine into Maya’s glass, but she puts her hand over it, preventing him.
“You don’t drink? You should have said.”
“I do, but I’m not feeling like it.”
I don’t know what to make of it. Why didn’t she just say?
The server asks if we’re ready to order. I look at Maya and I feel conflicted. It’s obvious that she doesn’t like this place.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want anything on the menu,” I suggest, trying to hazard a guess at what might be bothering her. She’s put the menu down without a word. “I can order your favorite food from somewhere, just tell me.”
She folds her arms and sits back, brows coming together. “Won’t they mind if you order food from somewhere else and I eat it here?”
“They won’t mind.”
“Because you’re a Knight?” she scoffs, her jaw tightening.
I tilt my chin, sensing that I’ve probably played into every jaded thought she’s ever had about rich men with too much power and influence. But it’s the truth. “Yes.”
When you reach the obscene levels of wealth that the Knight empire has amassed, you can do anything. “I’ll order whatever you want. All I want to do is for you to be happy.”
She sighs, like this is all getting to be too much. “I don’t want you to do whatever it takes to make me happy, Zach. I just want you to ...” Her words trail off. I wait expectantly.
“You want me to what?” I ask softly, wondering why this evening feels like I’ve been through ten rounds in the boxing ring with a fierce, unrelenting opponent.
She whispers, “I want you to leave me alone. We met by chance, but I hope we can go our separate ways again. We don’t have to do this.” She waves a hand between us.
“Do what?”
“Meet. Be in one another’s lives again.”
It feels like a plea. Like she’s begging me to leave her be and my heart sinks because this isn’t what I want.
“I’m sorry if it feels like I’m going over the top, making a big deal of this.” I stop, being careful to choose my words. I hate lying, but tonight seems to be too much for her. “I just wanted to have dinner to catch up with you.”
Her lips part slightly, nude lipstick softening them. “It really wasn’t necessary.”
Thankfully, the waiter returns and takes our order. Steak for me. A chicken Caesar salad for her.
“I’m sorry if it offends you, me trying to be nice.”
“I don’t need you to be nice, or to save me” she says quietly.
“Save you? I’m ... I’m just trying to make conversation. Find out where you’ve been, what you’ve been up to.”
Her eyes lift then, meeting mine. Something unspoken flickers there.
“Why do we need to? It’s gone, it’s happened, it’s in the past.”
“True.”
“At least we understand each other,” she says.