Chapter 11 #2
I take a sip of wine, feeling myself relax into the story.
"So I spent weeks trying to figure out who was behind it.
Set up stakeouts, tracked IP addresses, the works.
I was convinced it was this computer science professor who always gave weirdly defensive looks whenever squirrels came up in conversation. "
"Suspicious," Dane says, deadpan.
"Right? So I follow him for two weeks, digging through his trash?—"
"Stakeouts and trash hunting. Impressive."
"Investigative journalism," I say with a grin. "Anyway, I started having doubts when my garbage-diving yielded nothing but coffee grounds and graded papers. So I dug deeper and discovered the account was actually run by… get this… the dean's ninety-year-old mother. Talk about a plot twist."
Dane's eyebrows shoot up. "You're shitting me."
"Nope. She had dementia, lived in faculty housing, and the assistant would wheel her around campus daily. Old lady would eavesdrop on everything, and the assistant set up the account as therapy—thought it'd be therapeutic to let her share her 'observations' as a squirrel."
"So instead of a conspiracy, you got Grandma Squirrel."
"Just a confused old woman who thought she was collecting acorns instead of secrets." I shake my head. "The assistant begged me not to publish. Said it would crush the dean if her mother became campus gossip."
Dane studies me, something shifting behind his eyes. "You walked away from your story."
"Some secrets deserve to stay buried." I fiddle with my napkin. "Besides, the assistant was so grateful, she slipped me a flash drive with evidence of the school's budget mismanagement of a remodel project. I broke that story instead."
He actually laughs then—a low, rough sound that seems to surprise both of us. "Opportunistic."
"I prefer 'adaptable,'" I reply, clinking my glass against his.
The conversation flows easier than I expected, our initial awkwardness dissolving with each story shared.
His face relaxes subtly, those sharp edges softening just enough to glimpse the man beneath the intensity.
When the waiter delivers our entrees—steak for him, linguini for me—a comfortable rhythm has emerged between us.
"So," Dane says, cutting into his steak with surgical precision, "you mentioned New Orleans. Your family still there?"
I twirl pasta around my fork, buying time. "Yeah. My parents still live in the same house I grew up in. Dad teaches English at a community college, Mom runs a little bookstore in the French Quarter."
Not the whole truth, but not a lie either. I'd rather eat broken glass than explain the strained phone calls twice a year and my dad's disappointed sighs because I refuse to visit.
"You don't visit much," he observes.
Wow, perceptive! I snort before I can stop myself. "What gave it away?"
"The way you say 'New Orleans' like it's a foreign country."
Damn. I take a large sip of wine. "We're not... close. They wanted a daughter who'd stay, marry a nice Southern boy, maybe teach kindergarten." I shrug. "Instead they got me."
"Their loss," he says simply.
Something warm unfurls in my chest that has nothing to do with the wine. I clear my throat. "What about you? Any family in New York?"
His face shutters slightly, but he doesn't completely close off. "Had an older sister. Juliet."
The past tense hangs heavy between us. I wait, giving him space to continue or not.
"She was smart. Fierce." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "When I was ten, she punched a kid who stole my lunch money. Broke his nose."
"Sounds like I might have needed her on my side."
"You'd have liked her." He takes a careful sip of water. "She liked people who didn't take shit."
If he knew I wasn't always the kind of person who stands for herself. I had to learn the hard way.
I notice he doesn't mention how she died, and I don't push. Loss has its own timeline.
"Parents?" I ask, steering toward potentially safer ground.
His laugh is sharp, humorless. "My parents are gone."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Besides they were never first date conversation material."
"You can trust me," I say teasingly, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness. "My therapist says I have excellent emotional bandwidth."
"You seeing a therapist?"
"No, but it sounded professional, right?"
That gets me a real smile, brief but genuine. "Parents were complicated. Dad was a lawyer, Mom..." He trails off, something dark crossing his face. "Let's just say family history isn't my strong suit."
"Fair enough. Mine includes a great-uncle who got arrested for wrestling an alligator while drunk and dumping it in his mistress' lawn, so I get the whole 'complicated' thing."
Dane raises an eyebrow.
"Uncle Beau lost a pinky finger, but gained a hell of a story." I take another bite of pasta. "Also, I made that up. Just checking if you're paying attention."
He leans back slightly, studying me. "I'm always paying attention, Lila."
The way he says my name—like he's tasting it—sends a shiver down my spine.
"Anyway," he continues, twisting his water glass, "family talk tends to scare people off. Figure I'd save that for, what, the third date?"
"Bold of you to assume there'll be a third," I counter, but I'm smiling.
"Bold of you to assume there won't."
His confidence should irritate me, but instead, I feel a flutter of anticipation. Tessa would be having a field day hearing this.
"I don't know," I say, feigning seriousness. "Depends if you've got any other skeletons hiding in that closet of yours, Wolfe."
"Nothing that bites," he replies, then adds with a hint of danger, "hard."
I nearly choke on my wine.
When the waiter slides the check onto our table in a leather folder, I feel my stomach plummet. I've been deliberately not looking at menu prices all night, focusing instead on Dane's unexpected laugh and the way his forearms flex when he gestures. Now reality crashes back.
"So..." I say, eyeing the leather folder like it might bite. "About that."
Dane reaches for it without hesitation.
"Wait." I put my hand on the folder. "I just… I should probably tell you something."
He raises an eyebrow, waiting.
"I, um—" God, this is embarrassing. "I didn't actually pick this place.
Tessa did. She's my best friend, the one who loaned me this dress.
She has expensive taste because her family's loaded, and she doesn't understand normal people budgets, and I didn't realize how fancy it was until I got here, and I don't want you thinking I'm the kind of person who expects?—"
"Lila." His voice cuts through my rambling.
"Yeah?"
"Take a breath."
I inhale deeply, cheeks burning. "I can pay for my half." My bank account screams in protest. Guess I'll be eating ramen until payday. Again.
Dane studies me for a moment, his eyes seeing way more than I want them to. "You're worried I think you chose an expensive restaurant to take advantage."
Well, when he puts it that bluntly...
"Maybe? It's just—I work for tips, you know? I understand budgets. And first dates shouldn't come with financial pressure." I twist my napkin. "I don't want to be that girl."
"What girl?"
"The high-maintenance one. The gold-digger. Whatever." I wave my hand dismissively. "I don't care about money. I'm not impressed by it."
A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "You're worried about the wrong things."
"Easy for you to say, Mr. I-can-afford-a-tailored-shirt." Shit, that came out bitchier than intended. "Sorry, that was?—"
"Accurate." He looks amused rather than offended. "The check isn't a problem, Lila."
"But—"
"The meal was excellent, the company even better." He opens the folder, glances at the total without reaction, and slides his card inside. "Next time, I'm taking you to Daniel," he says, casual as if suggesting a Starbucks run.
My eyes widen. Even I know that place. "That's like, what, three hundred bucks a person?"
"Give or take."
"Are you trying to bankrupt yourself?" I blurt out. "Because there are cheaper ways to do that. I hear crypto is popular."
He actually laughs at that, a quiet rumble that does funny things to my insides.
"I'm not worried about the money." His eyes lock with mine, sudden intensity making my breath catch. "You have nothing to worry about, Lila. Not with me."
Something in the way he says it—like a promise wrapped in steel—makes me believe him. And that's terrifying in a completely different way.
"Well," I recover, raising my nearly-empty wine glass, "in that case, I'll be ordering the lobster next time."
"Order whatever you want." The look he gives me suggests he's not just talking about food. My brain immediately takes a detour into territory that would make my roommate high-five me and my mother disown me. Like asking him to show me exactly what that mouth can do besides order expensive wine.
My phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up with Tessa's name. Dane glances at it but doesn't comment, signaling for the waiter instead.
"Sorry," I murmur, picking up my phone.
Tessa: Everything ok? Should I go home or do you need rescue?
Her text is followed by three eyeball emojis.
I bite my lip, glancing up at Dane who's signing the check. God, his hands are nice. Steady, strong, with those little scars across his knuckles that hint at stories he's not telling.
I quickly type a reply.
Lila: All good. Letting him take me home.
Three dots appear immediately, then…
Tessa: HOME HOME? Like to your apartment home? Like will he be doing dirty things to you home?
Heat creeps into my face. Only Tessa could make me blush this hard via text message. I angle the phone away slightly, paranoid that Dane can somehow see my screen.
Lila: Jesus, Tess! Cool your jets. Just a ride home.
I hesitate, then add…
Lila: Though if he wanted to do dirty things, I wouldn't say no.
Her response is instant.
Tessa: FINALLY! Wear the black lace! The good one! Not the Target one!
"Everything okay?"
I nearly drop my phone at Dane's voice. He's watching me with those too-perceptive eyes, like he can read my thoughts about black lace and his hands.
"Fine! Just Tessa checking in." I slide my phone into my purse. "She has this whole system where she makes sure I'm not being murdered on dates."
"Tessa?" Dane asks, his eyebrow lifting with something that looks suspiciously like amusement. "Would that be the woman in the cashmere sweater who walked in exactly five minutes after you did and has been sitting at the bar pretending not to watch us all night?"
My jaw drops. Literally drops, like in cartoons, except there's no comical sound effect—just the horrifying realization that my brilliant spy operation was about as subtle as a neon sign.
"I—what—how did you—" I stutter eloquently, feeling heat rush to my face. "That's not—I mean?—"
Oh my God. I'm going to murder Tessa. After I die of embarrassment. After I possibly throw up from mortification.
But then something unexpected happens. Dane laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a condescending smirk—an actual full-bodied laugh that transforms his entire face. The sound is rich and warm, catching me so off-guard I temporarily forget my humiliation.
"Your friend's technique needs work," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. "She's been taking pictures of her water glass for twenty minutes while watching our table in the mirror behind the bar."
"Oh Jesus," I groan, covering my face with my hands. "I'm so sorry. This is so embarrassing. We're not usually this... okay, no, we are exactly this ridiculous."
"Don't apologize." His voice softens. "It's smart, actually."
I peek through my fingers. "Smart? Not 'psychotic stalker behavior'?"
"Having backup on a first date with someone you barely know?" He shrugs. "That's not crazy, that's practical. Especially for women."
His candor surprises me. Most guys I've dated would be insulted by the implication they might be dangerous.
"You're not mad?"
"Why would I be mad that you're careful?" He leans forward, voice dropping. "Though next time, tell her not to wear something that catches light. The sequins on her purse kept reflecting the candles."
I laugh despite myself. "I'll add that to her spy training manual."
"So," he says, standing and offering his hand. "Should we go rescue your friend from her surveillance duty? Or would you like me to pretend I still don't know she's there?"
I take his hand, feeling strangely giddy. "Let's put her out of her misery. Fair warning though—she's going to interrogate you."
"I've faced worse," he says with that slight smile. "Though probably not much worse."
I lead Dane toward the bar, watching Tessa's face cycle through shock, panic, and finally resignation as she realizes her cover's blown. When we reach her, she's frantically trying to look casual by stirring her water with determined focus.
"Fancy meeting you here," I say, crossing my arms.
Tessa looks up with Oscar-worthy surprise. "Lila! What a coincidence! I was just?—"
"Taking artistic photos of your water glass?" I finish for her. "Very avant-garde."
Dane extends his hand. "Dane Wolfe. You must be Tessa. Good choice of restaurant."
Tessa shakes his hand, recovering quickly. "Thanks! I have excellent taste in everything. Restaurants, clothes, friends..." She shoots me a meaningful look that screams and men .
"Your surveillance technique needs work," he tells her, straight-faced.
Her mouth drops open. "My—what—I wasn't?—"
"The sequins were a tactical error," I stage-whisper. "Dead giveaway."
"Noted," Tessa says, composing herself with remarkable speed. "So, Dane, what are your intentions with my best friend?"
Jesus Christ. "Okay, that's our cue to leave." I clutch my purse, mortification heating my cheeks. "Tess, I love you, but I'm not twelve."
"Walk her to her door," Tessa instructs Dane, ignoring me completely. "Text me when you're home," she adds to me.
"Yes, Mom," I roll my eyes, but there's no real annoyance. Her protectiveness is annoying and endearing in equal measure.
Outside, the night air feels electric against my skin as we walk toward Dane's car—that sleek black Charger that somehow perfectly matches him.
"Sorry about Hurricane Tessa," I say as he opens the passenger door.
"Don't be." His voice is warm, genuine. "It's good to have people who care enough to be ridiculous on your behalf."
As he closes my door and walks around to the driver's side, I let myself really look at him—the way he moves like every step is intentional, the thoughtful set of his jaw, the careful way he handles everything.
For the first time in years, I feel that dangerous pull of wanting to know someone completely. Of wanting to be known.
And that's what terrifies me most about Dane Wolfe—not that he might be dangerous, but that I might actually let him see me. All of me. Even the parts I've kept buried since New Orleans.