Chapter 47 A Proper Date
A Proper Date
Sebastian: Good morning, Ms. Sinclair. I have a proposition that is both entirely improper and absolutely necessary.
Harper paused mid-sip of her coffee, lips quirking despite herself.
Harper: Those are usually your best propositions. I’m listening.
Sebastian: Dinner. Tonight. My place.
Harper: Sebastian, are you asking me on an actual date? How wonderfully pedestrian of you.
Sebastian: I’m full of surprises. See you at seven-thirty?
Harper: Only if you promise the Cheshire Cat won’t be judging my table manners.
Sebastian: He only judges people who don’t appreciate good wine. You’ll be fine.
Harper knocked on Sebastian’s door.
“You’re actually on time,” he said, surprise colouring his voice. “I was betting you’d be at least twenty minutes late.”
“I can leave and come back later if it would make you more comfortable,” she replied, but she was already stepping past him into the flat.
Sebastian hesitated, then held out what looked to be a very expensive bouquet of flowers. “These are… for you.”
Harper blinked, momentarily thrown. No one had bought her flowers in years. She recovered quickly, of course. She always did.
She accepted them with a smirk. “Flowers, Sebastian? How startlingly conventional of you.”
“Well, I did some internet searches on how normal dates are supposed to work,” he admitted. “Turns out it’s more complicated than navigating corrupt political dynasties.”
Harper laughed, genuinely delighted. “I like them,” she said, inhaling their scent.
“You look—” He’d noticed how the dress made her eyes look even bluer than usual, how it showed off her long legs to excellent effect, how the neckline hinted at more without revealing too much. “You look perfect.”
He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. She blinked, caught off guard, and he immediately regretted the silence that followed.
“I mean, not that you weren’t before. Or that I expected you to dress up. I just—” He winced. “I don’t usually do the whole dinner-and-flowers thing.”
“I noticed,” Harper said, stepping closer.
Close enough that she could smell his cologne, a subtle and expensive scent that made her want to lean in.
“Honestly, it’s kind of adorable.” She glanced up at him with a smirk.
“Leave it to you to perfectly execute a political coup and then get tripped up by basic boyfriend behavior.”
Sebastian groaned. “I knew I should’ve just taken you to the opera. At least I know how to do that.”
“Too late,” she said, her fingers brushing his as she handed him the flowers. “Now I know you can be sincere.”
The house looked different than during Harper’s previous visits—warmer somehow, with soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers and the scent of something delicious wafting from the kitchen.
Sebastian led her through the familiar minimalist spaces, stopping in the kitchen to find a vase for the flowers.
Harper watched him move with unconscious grace, noting how his shirt pulled slightly across his shoulders when he reached for the high shelf.
“Ready?” he asked, turning to catch her staring.
“Ready,” she said, not bothering to look away.
He led her toward the French doors she’d never seen opened before, his hand finding the small of her back—a touch that sent warmth spreading through her despite its innocence.
“Oh,” Harper breathed as they stepped onto the terrace.
String lights were draped overhead like captured stars, while candles flickered on a small table set for two. The city sprawled below them, but up here it felt private, intimate. A soft breeze carried the scent of roses from somewhere below.
“Sebastian.” She turned to him, surprised. “This is beautiful.”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he said, though he looked pleased. “I’m capable of romance when properly motivated.”
“And what’s your motivation tonight?”
“Impressing a certain journalist who’s too good for me.”
Harper felt warmth spread through her chest. “Well, it’s working.”
He gave a small shrug, but the pleased flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “I wanted to give us something that was ours. No scandal. No interruptions. Just… this.”
Her smile was slow, real. “You did.”
Sebastian pulled out her chair with a slight bow. “Excellent. Phase one of Operation: Don’t Screw This Up is complete.”
“There are phases?” Harper asked, settling into her seat. She was hyperaware of how close he was as he pushed in her chair, how his breath briefly stirred her hair.
“Oh yes. Very detailed planning. Phase two involves not poisoning you with dinner.”
“How confident are you about phase two?”
Sebastian disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two plates, moving with the kind of focused efficiency that Harper found oddly attractive. “Moderately confident. I may have outsourced the actual cooking.”
Harper took a bite and her eyebrows shot up. “Sebastian. This is incredible.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass your compliments along to the chef at Le Jardin.”
Harper stared at him. “You got takeaway from a Michelin-starred restaurant?”
“I prefer ‘consulting with culinary professionals,’” Sebastian said, settling into his chair across from her. “I wanted tonight to be special, and I was going to cook, but then I remembered I want you to come back.”
“This is either very sweet or completely insane.”
“Can’t it be both?”
Harper laughed despite herself. “Only you would think ordering takeaway from one of the most expensive restaurants in the city counts as a casual dinner.”
“In my defense, I also lit candles. That’s very domestic of me.”
“Your domestic skills are noted and appreciated,” Harper said, taking another bite. “Though I’m starting to understand why you needed an entire inheritance to survive.”
They settled into easy conversation, the wine loosening their usual careful boundaries. Harper found herself watching Sebastian’s hands as he gestured, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how he leaned forward when she spoke as if her words were the most important thing in the world.
“I have a confession,” Harper said, stealing one of his vegetables. “I may have googled ‘how to date someone who used to be your adversary’ this afternoon.”
Sebastian nearly choked on his wine. “And what did the internet tell you?”
“That it’s either a recipe for disaster or the beginning of a very entertaining rom-com.”
“Which one are we betting on?”
“Jury’s still out,” Harper said. “Though the entertainment value is definitely high.”
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You know, six months ago, if someone had told me I’d be having dinner with Harper Sinclair on my terrace, I’d have assumed it was some elaborate interrogation technique.”
“Who says it isn’t?” Harper shot back. “Maybe I’m just really committed to getting the story.”
“What story would that be?”
“Reformed playboy attempts romantic dinner, accidentally reveals he’s capable of genuine human emotion.”
“Reformed?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “That’s generous of you.”
“I’m feeling charitable tonight.” Harper’s expression grew more serious. “Besides, we both know this isn’t about a story anymore.”
“No,” Sebastian agreed quietly. “It’s not. The question is whether we’re brave enough to see where it goes.”
“Are you?”
“With you? I’m willing to find out.” He paused, then added, “As long as we can keep it between us for now. I know that’s not ideal, but—”
“Sebastian.” Harper reached across the table to touch his hand, her fingers tracing over his knuckles. “I get it. We need privacy to figure this out without the whole world watching. I want that too.”
The simple contact sent electricity up both their arms. Sebastian turned his hand palm up, threading their fingers together.
“Your turn,” Sebastian said, his thumb tracing circles on her palm. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
Harper was quiet for a moment, distracted by the gentle pressure of his touch. “You already know plenty.”
“Tell me something real,” Sebastian asked.
She hesitated, then: “When I’m overwhelmed, I eat cereal for dinner and reorganize my bookshelves. I talk to my houseplants. And when I was twelve, I wanted to be a war correspondent.”
Sebastian’s thumb stilled. “Really, a war correspondent?”
“I thought danger made stories matter more. I wanted to be where the world cracked open.”
“And now?”
“I think intimacy is harder than war zones,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting his. “Harder to get right. Easier to screw up.”
He was quiet for a moment, still holding her hand. “That’s not what I expected.”
“I’m not what people expect.”
“I like that about you.” His voice was soft, serious. “I like that you surprise me.”
Harper looked at him, skeptical, “You say that now.”
“Then I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.” He replied.
They sat in companionable silence, the night air cooling around them, their joined hands the only point of contact.
“Your turn,” she said. “Tell me something real.”
Sebastian leaned back, but didn’t release her hand. His eyes were fixed on the candlelight between them. “Sometimes I wonder if I only know how to be charming because I never learned how to be safe.”
The words hung between them, raw and honest.
“That’s very real,” Harper said softly.
“I warned you.” He smiled faintly. “Operation: Don’t Screw This Up is hanging by a thread.”
“I don’t think it is,” she said, rising from her chair but keeping their hands connected. “I think this is the part where we stop pretending we’re not already in this.”
Sebastian stood as well, and suddenly they were facing each other across the small table, candles flickering between them like a barrier neither was quite ready to cross.
“We are, aren’t we?” he said.
Harper nodded, stepping around the table toward him. “I think it snuck up on us.”
Jazz was still playing softly from hidden speakers, a tune that was slow and sultry that seemed to wrap around them.
Sebastian moved to turn off the music, but Harper caught his wrist.
“Leave it,” she said. “I like it.”