Chapter 7
Marigold
Food? With him?
I’ve had worse dinner dates—technically, this isn’t even a date.
It’s a polite post-naked-shifting-in-a-commercial-kitchen-after-I-pre-dumped you peace offering.
Totally safe.
Totally casual.
Totally not me agreeing to spend an evening alone with a man who looks like he was forged in sin, questionable playlists, and late-night takeout choices.
“Fine,” I say finally, arms crossed. “But I want sushi. And ramen. And if you slurp, I walk.”
He tilts his head, a slow grin spreading across that too-handsome face.
“I never slurp, Honey,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “Unless it’s warranted.”
My thighs clench.
My mouth opens.
My brain promptly disconnects from my body.
Did he just—heck yes, he did.
A dirty joke.
Delivered in that deep, confident, growly tone that makes my stomach flip and my pulse trip over itself.
“Okay,” I manage, trying to sound cool and failing spectacularly. “Let me just run upstairs and put on something less, um, flour-covered.”
“Perfect,” he says smoothly. “I’ll find a place and make a reservation.”
I bolt for the stairs, muttering to myself about how I’m definitely not attracted to him.
Nope. Not even a little.
This is business-adjacent dining. Nothing more.
I peel off my bakery clothes, wash my face, and dig through my closet like a woman possessed. I’m aiming for comfortable-yet-cute, but my reflection looks like nervous-with-a-side-of-please-don’t-let-him-see-you-drool.
I settle on dark jeans, a fitted cream sweater, and my favorite boots.
And because I have zero self-control, I add lip gloss. Just in case.
I tug the bottom of my sweater up with my teeth as I zip up my jeans—only to freeze when I hear a voice behind me.
“Need help?”
I yelp. Spin around.
And there he is.
Eb Rogers, CEO, Badger Shifter, certified problem.
Leaning against my doorway, all six-foot-something of him, in his tailored black coat, wearing a look that should be illegal.
For a second, I can’t even form words.
His eyes drag down my body, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging every inch.
“Do you mind?” I snap.
But it comes out breathier than I’d like.
“Not even a little,” he grumbles.
He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even look remotely sorry.
He just studies me—hungry, restrained, and maybe just a little dangerous.
And oh God, I like it.
He clears his throat and turns, fast enough that I almost think I imagined the heat in his gaze.
“Got a coat?” he asks gruffly.
“Yep,” I manage, snatching my favorite camel-colored peacoat from the rack.
“Good.”
He holds the door open for me, and for a man who’s all growls and sharp edges, he’s oddly gentle when his hand grazes the small of my back to guide me outside.
The touch is brief. Barely there.
But it sends a warm shiver up my spine anyway, because of course it does.
And then—oh, holy luxury vehicle, Batman.
There it is.
A Mercedes-Benz G-Class G 63, the mother of all luxury trucks, is just sitting under a streetlamp like something out of a dream.
The thing practically purrs even before he starts it.
Matte army green paint, gleaming chrome accents, tinted windows, the works.
It’s the kind of car that says, I mean business—but I also have impeccable taste.
I whistle low.
“This is a really nice ride.”
His mouth twitches, just enough to show he’s pleased.
“Thanks,” he says, casual, sliding into the driver’s seat with predatory grace. “Want music?”
“Sure,” I say, grinning as I buckle in, “but you’re not gonna like it.”
One dark brow arches. “Try me.”
Oh, this man has no idea what he’s in for.
I flip on the radio, scroll through the stations until I find the Seasonal Hits Holiday Extravaganza, and crank it just loud enough for Mariah Carey to belt out her annual anthem.
He groans.
Loudly.
“You wound me, Honey.”
“Ha!” I shoot back. “You’re a big man, Eb. I bet you can take it.”
His jaw flexes, a spark of something wicked in his emerald eyes.
“If you’re the one dishing it out, you bet your sweet ass I can take it.”
My breath catches.
Did he just? Yep, he did.
My entire body heats, cheeks included.
The man says it in this low, rumbling drawl that vibrates all the way down to places that should not be tingling during a casual ride to dinner.
I stare resolutely out the window as the snow drifts down in lazy flakes, pretending to focus on the glowing lights strung across the avenue.
But I can feel him glance at me, smug, like he knows exactly what kind of havoc he’s wreaking.
And damn it, he’s right.
Because between the purr of the engine, the faint scent of cedar and musk filling the cab, and the way his hands move over the steering wheel—strong, sure, and just a little possessive—I’m pretty sure I’m not hungry for sushi anymore.
I’m hungry for him.
Lucky for my pride he pulls up to a restaurant before I can make an ass of myself.
And the place he finds? It isn’t the greasy ramen joint I expected.
It’s stunning.
A warm, softly lit Japanese fusion restaurant tucked away on the edge of town.
Twinkling fairy lights spiral up the wooden beams, and paper lanterns hang overhead, casting everything in a romantic glow.
“This isn’t a hole in the wall,” I murmur, my voice catching somewhere between impressed and nervous.
“No,” he says, low and pleased. “It’s good though. I promise.”
A hostess greets us, and when she leads us to a corner table by the window, I catch the faintest whiff of his cologne—clean cedar, spice, and something distinctly him.
The tension between us hums like static.
He orders sake for both of us.
I don’t argue.
By the time our ramen arrives, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m relaxed.
Until he looks at me—really looks at me—and says, “So, tell me, Marigold. Why does someone like you need an app to find a date?”
I snort. “Someone like me?”
He shrugs, sipping his drink. “Beautiful. Smart. Successful. Sassy as hell. Doesn’t exactly scream needs dating assistance.”
My cheeks heat.
“Well, maybe I was just curious,” I reply. “Or maybe the universe decided to have a little fun.”
“Maybe it decided to mess with me,” he mutters.
“Mess with you? You’re the one who came here to dump me.”
He winces, sets his glass down. “About that,” he says.
“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow.
He leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping low enough to send a shiver down my spine.
“Let’s just say I’m reconsidering.”
My heart does this weird stutter thing, like it can’t decide if it wants to stop or sprint straight out of my chest.
“Reconsidering?” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
His smile is lazy. Dangerous. The kind that could melt chocolate and common sense at the same time.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, eyes locked on mine. “Because the food’s good.”
He pauses, his gaze flicking—no, lingering—on my mouth.
“And I think the company might be even better.”
The world goes very still.
The soft glow of lantern light turns everything gold. Snow drifts lazily outside the window.
Somewhere, a piano recording starts playing a quiet jazz version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
And there’s this impossible, undeniable pull between us.
I swallow hard, trying to remember how words work.
“Sorry,” I say, forcing a wobbly smile. “But that ship might’ve already sailed, Buddy.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
“I don’t think it has, Honey,” he murmurs, voice low enough to vibrate in my chest.
“Otherwise, what’re you doing here with me?”
My breath catches.
And for the first time, I can’t tell if I’m still steering this moment?
Or if maybe, just maybe, something bigger than either of us is.