Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
DOMINIC
The restaurant was small, dimly lit, and alive with quiet chatter.
The kind of place where everyone seemed in on a private joke, the kind of place that smelled like rosemary and garlic and wine that cost more than some people made in a week.
Rachel didn’t flinch at the setting. She wasn’t impressed by opulence, never had been.
That only made her more intoxicating—because I had to work harder, think faster, charm smarter.
I slid into the seat across from her, leaving just enough space for the tension to hum between us. She gave me that look—the one where she measured me, tested my intentions, weighed the risk. I leaned forward slightly, my arms resting on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of my glass.
“So,” I said, voice light, teasing, “you’re really going to make me work for this evening, huh?”
She raised a brow, a slow, deliberate lift that was equal parts amusement and warning. “I’m working too,” she said. “You already know that.”
I grinned, leaning back, letting my gaze roam over her, memorizing her. “Working,” I repeated, mock solemn. “With that face? In Paris? Dangerous. Highly illegal.”
Her lips twitched. “You think flattery will get you a table-side smile?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But it’s worth trying.” I caught the tiniest edge of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Progress. Barely. But it was progress.
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on her hands, and gave me a look that made me want to break every rule I had about being restrained. “So tell me,” she said, voice smooth, “what’s Dominic Walsh doing in Paris, exactly? You don’t travel continents for croissants.”
I shrugged, that easy, casual shrug that hid a thousand layers of thought. “Maybe I travel continents for the company.” I chose the words specifically and caught the flicker of reaction from her.
“You’re insufferable,” she said, but there was heat in her tone, a sparkle of mischief that had me wanting more.
“Not insufferable,” I corrected smoothly. “Tempting. Delicious. Dangerous. Terribly hard to resist.”
She rolled her eyes, the slightest, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough to make me feel like I’d just won a small battle. “You have a problem with subtlety.”
“Subtlety,” I said, leaning closer, “is overrated. And I have no problem telling the truth when it comes to you.”
She laughed—a sound so light and teasing it made me ache. “The truth, huh? And what truth would that be?”
I leaned back, arms spread, deliberately relaxed, letting my gaze roam over her like a man surveying something he’d longed for but never quite owned. “That I want you,” I said flatly. “Completely. Every part. And that I’m not leaving until you let me show you exactly what that means.”
Her brow furrowed slightly, and for a second, I wondered if I’d gone too far. But then she tilted her head, that defiant, fearless tilt, and I realized she was waiting to see if I’d back down. Not a chance Flash.
“Hmm, I thought you came for dinner,” she said, voice laced with amusement and challenge.
“I did,” I replied smoothly, “but dinner is better with dessert. You included.” My gaze met hers, and I kept it steady and confident. What she needed. What she craved. Even if I had to adopt a dangerous edge, because Rachel? She was never going to take the safe path.
She shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her. “You are impossible.”
“And you, Rachel,” I said softly, leaning forward again, “are breathtakingly infuriating. A constant, delicious puzzle I can’t—and won’t—ignore.”
She laughed again, that low, melodic sound that made all the distance of the past few months vanish. I wanted to reach across and touch her. I wanted to take her hand and stroke her wrist to feel how fast her pulse raced. But I didn’t. Not yet.
Sitting across from her, I didn’t bother to pretend anything else in the restaurant could hold a candle to her. The glass in my hand paused halfway to my lips because I didn’t really need the drink. I just needed her.
Even seated, she possessed this quiet presence—which was vastly amusing when you took into account that Rachel was a power house personality.
Yet, in this moment, it was the graceful, long and lean length of her that captivated me.
The elegant line of her neck that was exposed as she tilted her head to study me.
Her hair fell in loose, dark waves around her face, not pinned or arranged. More like she’d combed her fingers through it and called it good. Since I loved stroking my fingers into her hair, I could appreciate it.
Still, it was her face that completely undid me.
Her eyes held mine—deep, thoughtful, a little amused. She studied me and didn’t pretend anything else. The weight of all that focus rested on me and damn if I didn’t want to preen, just for her. She made me crazy.
The intelligence gleaming in those eyes dared me to try something.
Of course, that would leave me open to the evisceration of her tongue.
Granted that was fun too. But tonight, I just wanted to memorize how the light played over her hazel eyes, sometimes green, other times brown.
The shade seemed as mercurial as she did.
More, it was the way her lashes lowered slightly when she smiled, the suggestion of her lips curving just before she nails me with a clever word.
Then, when she did smile? It was always slow, and knowing, and devastating.
It turned up the corners of her mouth and transformed her lovely face into something utterly stunning.
I could almost survive all of that, but her laughter was my kryptonite. When she laughed, it was soft and unguarded, and hit me somewhere deep in my chest. Nothing I could do prevented me from grinning back at her.
“Dangerous,” she muttered, shaking her head, half-exasperated, half-admiring.
I smirked. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
The server arrived with our first course, and I let the interruption hang between us like a tease, like a promise.
I watched her, memorized the way she picked up her fork, the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed at something I’d said, and I knew—knew with every nerve ending—that I wasn’t just enjoying her company. I was consumed by it.
God help me, I wanted more.
Because Rachel wasn’t just a woman I wanted in fleeting moments.
She was a storm I wanted to chase, a risk I wanted to take, a fire I wanted to burn with.
No matter how far she pushed, no matter how many continents she crossed, no matter how fiercely she tried to protect herself, I would always find my way back to her.
Dinner, I told myself, is just dinner. But every glance, every word, every spark between us screamed otherwise. And I wasn’t leaving this city, this table, or this woman without staking my claim.
I watched her across the table, a soft glow from the candle catching in her hair, and I felt the familiar tug, the one that had haunted me for months. She didn’t just occupy space—she filled it to the brim. Every look, every sigh, every jab was a spark, and I was all but helpless to resist.
“So,” I said, leaning back, letting my eyes travel over her like I had every time before, “you really think you can sit across from me and pretend to not notice me?”
“I notice plenty,” she said, voice flat yet still warm with amusement, “and none of it is particularly flattering for you.”
I smirked, undeterred. “None of it flattering? Flash, I’m insulted. I thought you enjoyed me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Enjoying you is different from thinking you’re impressive. For the record, I’m not impressed by… whatever that is you’re trying to pull right now.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering my voice to something intimate and teasing. “You’re impossible.” It was her phrase and I loved the way her nostrils flared when I turned it back on her. “And you know it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, mock-innocent. “I’m just… cautious. Patient. Completely immune to men who think flattery works.”
I laughed, my amusement real. Everything about her slid under my defenses even as she poked me with a stick. “Immune, huh? Funny. Because last time I checked, you weren’t immune.”
She froze for the tiniest fraction of a second, then shot me a warning glance. “That was different,” she said softly, trying to reclaim control. “We—”
“We had a moment?” I interrupted gently, leaning closer, letting the words hang in the space between us. “We’ve had a lot of moments. I remember each one clearly. You do, too.”
She pursed her lips, a storm of emotions flickering behind her eyes. “I remember,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean—”
“That doesn’t mean you’re going to let me leave you alone?” I finished for her, smirk curling the corner of my mouth. “Because that’s exactly why I’m here.”
Her laugh was sharp, teasing, but there was a surge of something darker behind it, something that betrayed the tension she was holding in check. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Me? Quit?” I leaned back slightly, arms spread, a mock display of surrender. “Flash, do you think I’d leave? After everything? Do you think that after the first time, I’d let distance or caution or…whatever this is that makes you run, stop me?”
Her gaze hardened, eyes flashing with defiance. “Maybe I do,” she said, voice low, dangerous. “Maybe I like being able to control things for once. Maybe I like knowing you can’t just show up and—”
“Control?” I interrupted softly, leaning in, voice deliberate, deadly gentle. “Do you honestly think that’s possible with me? You’re a challenge, Rachel. That’s why I keep coming back for more.”
Her breath hitched, barely perceptible, but it was there. Her hands gripped the table. “You’re infuriating,” she whispered.
“And you?” I leaned closer, matching her intensity. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could make me feel like I’m losing every bit of control…without even touching me.”