Chapter 12
VICTORIA
Isaw the shock register on his face and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. “I know, I know. I’m not who you were expecting.”
He looked over his shoulder like he was searching for hidden cameras, then back at me. “Am I in danger? Is this a kidnapping?”
“Oh, get over yourself,” I said, grabbing my purse from the table by the door. “No one’s paying a ransom for you.”
“Then why am I here? Where’s Chantilly?”
“Sailing to Ibiza with some guy.” I stepped out onto the landing and pulled the door shut behind me, double-checking the lock. “She met him a few days ago and apparently it’s true love.”
Callum’s eyes narrowed. “So you set me up again.”
“I didn’t set you up.” I started down the stairs, my heels clicking on the concrete steps. “She called me and said she couldn’t make it. Then she said if I didn’t go in her place, she’d pull her donation.”
He followed me down. “And you agreed to this?”
“What choice did I have?” I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to face him.
We reached his car and I waited while he unlocked it. The SUV chirped twice.
“Look,” I said, crossing my arms. “If you don’t want to go to dinner, that’s actually great with me. We just need to tell Chantilly we went so she doesn’t take her donation back. We can take a selfie and call it a night if you want.”
He stared at me. I couldn’t quite read his expression. Then something shifted in his face.
“No,” he said. “I was just a little surprised. We’re going to dinner as planned.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m perfectly fine with putting on my jeans and eating a sandwich. Alone.”
“I’m sure.” He opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
I hesitated, then slid into the car. The interior was all black leather and that new car smell. The kind of car I used to take for granted when I lived a different life. Now it felt foreign, like I was stepping into someone else’s world for an evening.
Callum got in the driver’s side and started the engine. The car came to life silently, all glowing screens and ambient lighting.
“So where are we going?” he asked, pulling out of the parking lot.
“Marcello’s. It’s a little Italian place.”
“That’s not where Chantilly made the reservation.”
“I changed it.” I kept my eyes on the road ahead. “The place she picked was pretentious and overpriced. Marcello’s is better.”
We drove in silence for a few blocks. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.
That shirt was truly unfortunate. And the khakis were somehow worse.
I’d seen him in a tuxedo, looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine.
Now he looked like he was going to try selling me solar panels.
“What are you wearing?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. Once it was out, the rest followed. “I mean, what happened? Did you lose a bet?”
He sighed and smiled ruefully. “Something like that. I’m definitely rethinking my choices.”
I laughed despite myself. We fell into silence again, but it felt different this time. Less hostile. Almost comfortable.
Soon after, he pulled into the parking lot of Marcello’s and found a spot near the entrance.
The moment we stepped through the door, I felt myself relax. This was my place. Not literally—I couldn’t afford to eat here more than once every few months—but it felt like home in a way that fancy restaurants never had. There was comfort in good food and this place always delivered.
The smell hit me first. Garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread. The lighting was warm and low, with a single candle on each table. Soft Italian music played from speakers somewhere overhead. No pretentious vibes.
We sat and I asked for a bottle of Chianti, which the server brought over quickly. The server was a professional, and she barely made a face when she saw how Callum was dressed.
The wine wasn’t expensive but it was good. Callum poured for both of us, and I watched him handle the bottle with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times.
“So,” he said, settling back in his chair. “How long have you worked for the charity?”
“About two years.” I took a sip of wine. “I started as a volunteer and Betty eventually hired me full-time.”
“Betty seems like good people.”
“She’s the best.” I meant it. “She built that organization from nothing. She actually cares about the families we help.”
He nodded, studying me over the rim of his glass. “And before that, what were you up to?”
“Before that?” I picked up a breadstick and broke it in half. “Different life. Not worth talking about.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“Don’t be.” I took a bite of the breadstick, hoping he’d drop it.
He didn’t drop it, but he also didn’t push. Instead, he changed topics. “What’s good here?”
“Everything.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s helpful. I’m so glad I asked.”
“I’m serious. I’ve never had a bad meal here. Pick whatever you want.”
“Fine.” He scanned the menu. “I’ll get the spaghetti bolognese.”
I winced. “Actually, maybe pick something else.”
“What?” He looked up at me. “Why? Is it bad?”
“No, it’s amazing. It’s just the messiest spaghetti I’ve ever eaten in my life.”
“Oh, come on. What does that even mean?”
“It means exactly what I said. The sauce is incredible but it’s like they make it extra liquid-y on purpose. You will end up wearing half of it.”
He leaned back in his chair, a challenge in his eyes. “You think I can’t handle spaghetti?”
“On the plus side, getting marinara sauce on that shirt can only improve it.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I like living dangerously.”
“There’s a difference between living dangerously and being stupid.”
“Are you calling me stupid?”
“I’m calling your food choice questionable.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Was he enjoying this? “You know what? I’m a grown man. I think I can handle a plate of pasta.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Noted.” He closed his menu with an air of finality. “I’m getting the spaghetti.”
“Your funeral.”
“What are you getting?”
“The chicken parmigiana. Because I’m smart.”
“Because you’re boring.”
I nearly choked on my wine. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Chicken parm is the safe choice. The predictable choice.”
“And spaghetti isn’t? It’s also delicious and won’t end up all over my dress.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I left it at home along with my desire to do laundry tonight.”
He laughed. For a moment, he was just a guy sitting across from me, getting a feel for one another. The server appeared to take our order. Callum ordered his spaghetti with the confidence of someone who had no idea what he was getting into.
“So,” I said once the server left. “Tell me about the store you’re opening.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Your dad mentioned it when I met with him. He seemed excited about it.”
“It’s a big deal. Blackwell Couture has never had a physical store before. It’s high-end everything—dresses, accessories, wedding stuff.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“It is. Or it will be.” He took another sip of wine.
The server brought our salads and we ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. I was surprised. This was supposed to be awkward and uncomfortable. I was supposed to hate every minute of being here with him.
But I didn’t hate it. Not even close.
I watched his face as the server set down his plate of spaghetti—a mountain of pasta drowning in the most gorgeous marinara sauce I’d ever seen.
The chef emerged from the kitchen with a massive bib draped over his arm.
It wasn’t just any bib. It was the size of a cape, bright red with white checkered trim. It was basically a tablecloth.
“No,” Callum said, his eyes widening.
I bit down on my lip, trying desperately not to laugh as the chef pulled Callum to his feet, whipped the fabric around Callum’s shoulders with the flourish of a matador, and secured it around Callum’s neck in a way that suggested he’d done this many times before.
Then the chef guided Callum back into his seat.
Callum sat there, completely still, his expression a mixture of shock and resignation. The bib covered his entire torso. He looked like he was about to get a haircut at a barbershop for giants.
The chef patted him on the shoulder with approval. “Enjoy,” he said, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
The server set down my chicken parmigiana, her lips twitching like she was fighting her own battle against laughter, then quickly retreated.
The moment they were both out of earshot, I lost it. The giggles burst out of me before I could stop them, and once they started, I couldn’t make them stop. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to contain myself, but it was useless. My shoulders shook with laughter.
“Where the hell did you bring me?” Callum asked, but there was a smile on his lips. He looked down at the massive bib covering him and shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”
“I told you to pick something else,” I managed between giggles. “But hey, now you’re in for a treat.”
“On the bright side, it improved the look of my outfit.” He picked up his fork and twirled some pasta around it.
The moment he took his first bite, I watched his expression change. His eyes closed briefly and he made a sound that was almost obscene.
“Oh my God,” he said after he swallowed.
“Right?” I speared a piece of my chicken. “Fresh handmade pasta makes all the difference.”
He took another bite, then another. “This is incredible. Like, genuinely incredible.”
“It’s a hidden treasure in LA,” I said. “Most people drive right past it looking for the trendy spots, but this place has been here for thirty years. Same family, same recipes.”
“Thank you for sharing it with me.” He looked up from his plate, meeting my eyes. He looked genuinely impressed. “Seriously. This is way better than wherever Chantilly had picked out.”
We ate our meals. I was glad I hadn’t ordered pasta.
I did not want to be slurping noodles in front of him.
There was just no dignified way to eat them.
But he seemed to find it. I watched him navigate the spaghetti with surprising grace.
The bib was doing its job, catching the occasional splash of sauce that would have otherwise landed on that horrible shirt, but Callum kept his face mostly clean.
“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Tell me why you really work for the charity.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, most people who work for nonprofits either have a personal connection to the cause or they’re trying to make themselves feel better about something.” He took a sip of wine. “Which one are you? Do you have family that needed the service? Were you a sickly child?”
I set down my fork, considering how much to tell him. “No. Very healthy. My family never needed charity.” I took a sip of wine. “But if we ever did, I would feel so relieved to know there was an option. Something to take off some of the pressure.”
“I guess I never thought about what families go through,” he said. “Definitely a worthy cause. I’m glad I got to be a part of it.”
I smiled and cut another piece of chicken. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe underneath the designer clothes and the family name and the ridiculous fire alarm stunts, there was actually a decent person.
“Now can I ask you something?” I looked at him.
“Shoot.”
“Why did you really show up tonight dressed like that?” I gestured at him, referring to the outfit underneath the bib. “Because I know that’s not how you normally dress.”
He looked sheepish. “My siblings convinced me that if I looked terrible, Chantilly would lose interest.”
I nearly choked on my wine. “That’s clever.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s both.” I grinned at him. “But it wouldn’t have worked anyway. Chantilly doesn’t care what you look like. She cares what you represent—money, status, Instagram content. For her, it’s enough that you’re you.”
“You say that like you know her.”
“I know people like her. I grew up with them.” I pushed some chicken around on my plate. “They’re not bad people necessarily. But an ugly shirt was not going to be a dealbreaker for her.”
He groaned. “Let’s hope her new man works out.”
“She swore he was the one.”
“Whatever. That woman is dangerous. I think I can justify pulling fifty fire alarms.”