CHAPTER 7 #2
“Occasionally.” He doesn’t flinch from the question. “Business dinners mostly. A few dates. Nothing serious.”
“When was the last serious one?”
He pauses. “A long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Long enough that I’ve forgotten how to do this properly.” He gestures between us. “The intimacy. The vulnerability. I’ve spent years building walls, and now I’m supposed to pretend they don’t exist. So this is for me, as much as for you.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice is strange—rough at the edges. “That’s exactly what I have to do.”
I want to push. Want to ask what he means, what walls, what vulnerability. But the wine arrives, and the moment passes, and Julian shifts back into the smooth composure I’m starting to recognize as his default setting.
“Let’s practice,” he puts his hand on the table. “Place your hand next to mine.”
I place my hand palm-down on the white tablecloth. He covers it with his own.
Cool fingers. Long and elegant. A grip that’s firm without being tight.
“This is how I’ll hold your hand at dinner,” he says. “Visible. Public. Evidence we’re together.”
“Okay.”
“Now lean into me. Like I’ve said something funny.”
I lean. My shoulder presses against his arm. He’s solid—more solid than he looks, like there’s dense muscle beneath the expensive suit.
“Good.” His breath stirs my hair. “Now look at me like I’m the only person in the room.”
I turn my head. We’re inches apart. His eyes are dark in the candlelight—not quite black, but close. There are depths in them I can’t read.
“You’re good at this,” I whisper.
“I’ve had practice.”
“With who?”
“Various people. Over the years.”
“You always say that. ‘Over the years.’ Like there are more years than you’re admitting to.”
His expression sharpens. Just enough for me to notice.
“Some questions are better left for later,” he whispers in a way that feels mighty sensual.
“When is later?”
“After the wedding. When this is over. When you can decide if you desire to know.”
“I’d like to find out now.”
“No.” His hand tightens on mine. “You don’t. Trust me, Poppy. Some things are easier not knowing.”
Every rational thought screams at me to pull back. To demand answers. To remember this is fake and I barely know this man.
I ignore my rational self and stay. Close enough that I can count his eyelashes. So close, I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Okay,” I let him win this one. “After the wedding.”
“After the wedding.”
“But Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever it is—whatever you’re hiding—it doesn’t change this.” I squeeze his hand. “It doesn’t change how I feel when you look at me.”
Something moves behind his eyes. Something old and sad and hopeful all at once.
“You might feel differently when you know.”
“Maybe. But let me decide that.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with that expression I can’t read—like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve and a problem he can’t escape. Something so precious he’s afraid to touch.
“We should order,” he says. “Before this becomes something neither of us is ready for.”
Dinner is easier after that.
We practice the touches—his hand on my lower back, my head on his shoulder, the way couples lean into each other when they’re listening. Each contact gets more natural.
By dessert, I’ve stopped flinching. Stopped tracking his hands. Started enjoying the warmth of his body beside mine, even though he seems to run much colder than any guy I’ve ever dated.
“You’re cold,” I say, when my arm brushes his for the tenth time. “Like, really cold. Are you okay?”
“Poor circulation.” The answer comes fast. No hesitation. “I’ve always run cold.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No.” His hand covers mine again. “It’s just how I am.”
I file it away with the other things—the not eating, the late nights, the historical references that don’t fit. The list is getting longer. Eventually, I’ll have to confront him.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I’m sitting in a candlelit restaurant with a man who bought me an emerald dress and touches me like I matter. Tonight, I’m practicing falling in love.
Yeah, practicing. That’s all. Practicing.
We leave the restaurant and head home around eleven.
At my door, we stand in the hallway, facing each other. Close, but not too close. The distance he keeps calculating.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say. “For the dress. For... well, all of it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to kiss me goodnight?”
The question surprises us both. I hadn’t planned to ask it—it just came out, honest and wanting and completely against the rules of whatever game we’re playing.
His expression flickers. Want and restraint and something that looks like fear.
“Not tonight,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because if I kiss you now, I won’t stop.” His voice is rough. “And we haven’t talked about what this is. What we’re becoming.”
“What are we becoming?”
“I don’t know.” He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingers are cool against my cheek. “That’s what frightens me.”
“You don’t seem like someone who scares easily.”
“I’m not. Usually.” His thumb traces my jaw. Slow. Deliberate. “But you scare me, Poppy. What I feel when I’m with you scares me.”
“What do you feel?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
Then he steps back.
“Next Thursday,” he says. “The flight leaves at noon. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
“That’s eight days from now.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to avoid me until then?”
“No.” His mouth curves. “I’m going to think about you constantly and pretend I’m not.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“I told you. I’m not good at this.”
I laugh, surprising myself. “You’re better than you think.”
He turns to leave. Pauses at the stairs.
“Poppy?”
“Yes?”
“The dress really does suit you.”
Then he’s gone—down the stairs and out into the night, leaving me standing in my doorway in emerald silk, touching my jaw where his fingers were.
I go inside. Lock the door. Stand in my living room surrounded by ring lights, PR packages, and all the evidence of my curated life.
And I realize I’m in serious trouble.
Because this doesn’t feel fake anymore.
It feels like the most real thing I’ve ever had.