Chapter 18
LILA
I knock on Dane's apartment door, fidgeting with my purse strap while checking my lip gloss in my phone camera. The butterflies in my stomach have turned into full-blown hawks. God, I'm so nervous. What if this goes wrong? What if I'm making a mistake?
When the door swings open, the rich smell of sautéed mushrooms and white wine hits me. Dane stands there in a black t-shirt with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, looking annoyingly at ease.
"You found the place," he says, stepping aside to let me in.
"I followed the scent of someone trying too hard," I reply, but I'm smiling as I hand him the bottle of Cabernet I brought.
His apartment is surprisingly neat—spacious compared to my shoebox. In the kitchen, he goes back to stirring risotto, watching the rice turn creamy as it absorbs stock.
"I didn't know bartenders could be cooked for," I say, leaning against his counter while he works. "Usually we're the ones taking care of everyone else."
"Everyone deserves a night off." He tastes the risotto, adds a pinch of something. His movements are confident, practiced.
He serves everything, not letting me lift a finger. As we eat, he surprises me with a running commentary on '90s sitcoms that has me laughing despite myself.
"You're telling me you've never seen a single episode of 'Friends'?" he asks, refilling my wine glass.
"I've seen the memes. Does that count?"
"Christ, I'm ancient." He shakes his head, grinning. "What about 'The X-Files'? Please tell me you believe in aliens, Lila."
The way he says my name makes my skin warm. "The truth is out there," I quote, and his smile deepens.
We talk about nothing and everything, and I find myself relaxing into the conversation. There's an ease between us I wasn't expecting to return. His intensity is still there, but tonight it doesn't frighten me.
It draws me in.
I savor another bite of the risotto, perfectly al dente with a hint of truffle. Dane watches me eat, like he's cataloging every micro-expression.
"This is incredible," I admit between bites. "Where does a private detective learn to cook like this?"
"Military. When you've had enough terrible mess hall food, you either learn to cook or resign yourself to a lifetime of disappointment." He twirls his wine glass, studying the legs that form along the sides.
I look around his apartment again, noticing what isn't there. No photos on the walls. No mementos. No personal touches at all. The furniture is expensive but minimal—a leather couch, glass coffee table, sleek entertainment system with no visible movies or games.
"Your place is..." I search for the right word, the wine making me braver, "empty."
He raises an eyebrow. "I have furniture."
"But nothing personal. No photos, no souvenirs." I gesture with my fork. "It's like a really nice hotel room someone just moved into."
His expression shifts slightly, something guarded crossing his face. "I don't like clutter."
"There's clutter, and then there's personality," I counter, feeling the warm buzz of Cabernet in my veins. "Even serial killers have family photos."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that what you think I am?"
"If you were, you'd probably have more trophies." I smile, but I'm genuinely curious. "Everyone has something they keep, Dane. What do you keep?"
He considers me for a long moment, then shrugs. "The past doesn't make good décor, Lila."
After we're done, I watch Dane rinse the plates, his movements efficient and precise. The silence between us feels loaded now, like we're both aware of how close we're standing.
"So, Mr. Mystery," I say, bumping his hip with mine as I dry a wine glass, "do you have any friends? Or is it just you and your gun collection?"
He snorts. "I have friends."
"Work friends don't count," I counter. "I mean real friends. The kind who'd help you hide a body."
"That an offer?" His eyes glint with amusement.
"Please. I'm a bartender. I know at least three places to dump a corpse that'll never be found."
Dane chuckles, a low rumble that makes my stomach clench with something dangerous. "There's Milo," he says finally. "He's... complicated. But he's got my back."
"Milo, huh? Sounds like a cat name."
"Trust me, he's about as cuddly as a cactus." Dane dries his hands, then reaches for a box on the counter I hadn't noticed before. "Speaking of prickly things..."
He opens the lid, revealing a chocolate cake that looks like it belongs in a fancy patisserie window. My mouth waters instantly.
"Damn," I breathe. "That from the corner bodega?"
"You wound me," Dane says, mock-offended. He pulls out a spoon—just one, I notice—and scoops up a bite. "Try it."
I eye the spoon, then his face. "You're not going to, like, airplane it into my mouth, are you? Because I draw the line at baby noises."
He rolls his eyes. "Just eat the damn cake, Lila."
I lean forward, letting him feed me the bite. The moment the chocolate hits my tongue, I can't help the little moan that escapes. It's rich, decadent, with hints of espresso and something darker. My eyes flutter closed as I savor it.
When I open them again, Dane's watching me intently, his gaze fixed on my mouth. The air between us feels charged, electric.
"Good?" he asks, his voice rougher than before.
"Adequate," I manage, but my breathlessness gives me away.
Dane sets the spoon down, his movements deliberate. "Lila," he says, and the way he says my name makes my heart stutter. He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. "Can I kiss you?"
Part of me wants to make a joke, deflect with sarcasm like I always do when things get real. But the look in his eyes—hungry, yes, but also uncertain, like he's half-expecting me to bolt—makes me pause.
"You can," I say softly. "But if you try to airplane your tongue into my mouth, I'm leaving."
He laughs, a quick huff of air, before closing the distance between us. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and then his lips are on mine.
It's nothing like our last kiss. That was all heat and urgency, barely contained wildfire. This... this is slow. Deliberate. Like he's savoring me the way I savored that cake. His other hand settles on my waist, not grabbing or pulling, just a steady presence.
I taste chocolate and him, feel the rasp of stubble against my skin. My fingers find the soft cotton of his shirt, curling into the fabric.
When we break apart, I'm breathless. Dane's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"Adequate?" he asks, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips.
I pretend to consider. "Might need another data point. For science."
"Tongue allowed?"
I nod.
This time when he kisses me, I don't think about running. I don't think about anything at all.
Dane's kisses are like a thunderstorm, all crackling energy and barely contained power. But there's something held back, like he's keeping the full force of himself in check. It's both frustrating and thrilling, making me want to push further, to see what happens when that control snaps.
When he pulls away, his eyes are darker still, searching mine.
His fingers intertwine with mine, warm and calloused.
Without a word, he starts guiding me towards what I assume is his bedroom.
The question hangs in the air between us.
His eyes lock with mine, one eyebrow slightly raised—a silent "Is this okay? " that doesn't need words.
I swallow hard, my heart doing a gymnastics routine in my chest. This is it, Lila. Point of no return.
"Yes," I breathe.
As we cross the threshold into his room, I can't help but quip, "Let me guess, the sheets are military corners too?"
Dane's lips quirk. "You'll have to find out for yourself."
The bedroom is as sparse as the rest of his place, a California king with crisp white sheets (and yes, military corners), a sleek dresser, and not much else. No photos, no knick-knacks. It's like a really fancy hotel room, minus the weird abstract art.
"Wow, did you raid a Scandinavian prison for decorating tips?" I ask, deflecting my nervousness with the quip.
He doesn't respond, just pulls me close again, his hands settling on my hips. The kiss this time is deeper, hungrier. I feel it all the way down to my toes.
When we break for air, I'm dizzy. "Okay, forget the décor critique. Carry on."
Dane's hands slide under my shirt, leaving trails of fire on my skin. I shiver, pressing closer. His body is all hard planes and tension, coiled energy barely contained.
"You sure about this?" he murmurs against my neck.
Instead of answering, I grab the hem of his shirt and yank it over his head. "Does that clear things up for you, detective?"
His eyes rake over me, heated and intense. "Crystal."
The man's built like a damn tank—all lean muscle and latent power.
I want to trace every scar, every line of him.
And those tattoos—the stark "death before dishonor" etched across his right shoulder, so perfectly him it almost makes me laugh.
But it's the snarling wolf on his left ribs that really gets me, fierce and solitary, stretched over muscle in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch it.
Something about seeing those hidden marks on him, these pieces of himself he doesn't show anyone, makes my heart beat faster than just the physical attraction.
Like I'm seeing the real Dane Wolfe, not just the hard-ass detective he shows the world.
But then his hands are on my shirt, pulling it over my head with that same deliberate slowness. His fingers skim up my ribs. He's watching my face, gauging my reaction as he unhooks my bra. The straps slide down my arms, and suddenly I'm bare in front of him.
For a second, I feel exposed. Not just physically, but like he can see all the messy parts of me I usually keep locked down, the way I just saw his. My stomach flips as his gaze darkens to near black as it rakes over me.