11. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
The restaurant is one of his, of course.
That’s the first thing I think when I get here.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights smeared across the glass, white tablecloths that look like they’ve never met a coffee stain.
I serve tables like this all the time in my job, but I guess today I’m the one being served.
Eric pulls out my chair before the host can reach it. His hand brushes the small of my back as I sit, and the touch still lands hotter than it should through the thin fabric of my dress.
I smooth my napkin over my lap longer than necessary. My pulse is doing something stupid. I don’t know why. It’s just dinner. Practice. A performance. Nothing I haven’t handled before.
He notices anyway.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not.”
“You keep adjusting the silverware.”
I still my hands. “It’s crooked.”
“It’s not.” A hint of amusement in his voice, low and warm. “Relax, Valentina. It’s just dinner.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Sure.” He takes his seat across from me, completely at ease, like he owns the air in the room as much as the building.
I hate that he’s right. I hate that my shoulders are tight and my skin still feels too warm where his fingers touched me. I reach for the wine list mostly to give my hands a job.
“Nice place,” I say, aiming for dry. “Do you bring all your practice girlfriends here?”
“You’re the first one who made it past the bread.”
“Lucky me.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Only around you. It’s a new problem.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. The sommelier appears. Eric orders without looking at the menu - something French, easy, the kind of casual fluency that comes from never having to check. When we’re alone again, his attention settles back on me with that same steady weight.
“Better,” he says quietly. “You almost smiled.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.” He tips his head, studying me. “You still haven’t told me why you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t push. He just watches me over the rim of his water glass, eyes dark and far too knowing. “Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure out what this is.”
I hold his gaze, pulse still misbehaving, and refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking away first.
“It’s practice,” I say. “That’s all it is.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Then let’s practice.”
I straighten a little, grateful for the shift into something concrete. Something I can control.
“So,” he says, voice low and easy across the table. “How did we meet, girlfriend?”
I almost roll my eyes. “You bandaged my finger. I decided you were tolerable. End of story.”
“Weak. My mom will want more details.”
“You were working a shift for fun. I was having the worst night of my life. You cleaned me up and somehow talked me into this.” I tip my head. “Better?”
“Getting there.” His mouth curves. “People will ask how long we’ve been together.”
“Six weeks.”
“Seven. I count.”
“Of course you do.”
He leans back, studying me like he’s already rewriting the script in his head. “What do you like about me?”
I blink. “Your… punctuality.”
“Try harder.”
“Your ability to end my shift with one sentence. It’s a real talent.”
A half-smile. “I’ll take it.”
“You’re very confident for someone whose girlfriend is only practicing.”
“I have to be. You’re not exactly making it easy.”
I take a sip of water mostly to do something with my hands. He’s looking at me the way he always does, like the rest of the room is optional.
“Do you practice that look in the mirror?” I ask. “The whole ‘I own the room’ thing?”
“No.” His voice drops half a notch. “It comes naturally when the most interesting person in the room keeps pretending she’s not.”
I set the glass down carefully. “Oh, I see what you’re doing over there. But you don’t have to try to flirt with me when we’re only practicing.”
“That was part of the practice.”
“Convenient.”
“Effective.” His gaze flicks over my face. “But still - you’re blushing.”
“It’s just because it’s hot in here.”
“It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“Then the lighting is aggressive.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, and something in my chest tightens for no good reason. I reach for my wine, mostly for cover. The first course lands between us shortly after - something delicate and ridiculous with a sauce I can already tell is going to be a problem.
I take a bite. Then another. I’m mid-chew when his voice cuts in, softer.
“Stop biting your lip. It’s distracting.”
I freeze. I hadn’t even noticed I was doing it.
“I’m not-”
“You are.” He doesn’t look away. “You have sauce… right there.”
Before I can reach for my napkin he’s already leaning in. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and it lingers for half a second longer than it needs to. And his eyes don’t leave mine.
My heart is pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. My skin feels too tight.
This man’s hands putting food in my mouth shouldn’t feel more intimate than four years of marriage. It shouldn’t. But it does.
“I got it,” he says.
I stare at him. “Napkins exist.”
“They do.”
I sit back, pulse stupidly loud in my ears, and force my voice to stay even. “This is still fake. Don’t get comfortable.”
“I’m not.” He picks up his own fork like nothing happened. “But practice includes chemistry. Or no one will believe us.”
“Chemistry is a strong word.” I cut into the next bite harder than necessary. “You’re taking this very seriously for something temporary.”
“I take everything I want seriously.”
The air shifts.
“You don’t have me.”
“Not yet.”
“Not ever, if you keep saying things like that.”
A soft laugh leaves him. His eyes warm in a way that feels more dangerous than the thumb on my mouth.
“There she is.”
I look down at my plate because looking at him suddenly feels like losing.
“Eat your dinner, Eric.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He says it mildly, but I can still feel him watching me. And the worst part - the part I will not be examining tonight - is that some reckless piece of me doesn’t mind.
“Tell me something real,” he says.
“What?”
“If we’re going to convince my mother, I need to know you. Not the waitress version. Not the soon-to-be-divorced version. You.”
“There’s not much else.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He tastes his wine, nods, and watches me over the rim of his glass as the sommelier pours more wine into my glass, which is half empty.
“I used to paint,” I hear myself say. “Before Sebastian. Before everything. Watercolors, mostly. Landscapes.”
“Why did you stop?”
“He said it was a waste of time. That I should focus on things that actually mattered.” I take a sip of wine. It’s incredible. I hate that it’s incredible. “I believed him.”
Eric is quiet for a moment. Then: “What else did he convince you to stop?”
The question lands somewhere soft. I don’t answer.
More food arrives. Small plates. Things meant to be shared. He pushes one toward me.
“Keep eating.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
His knee bumps mine under the table.
I freeze. Wait for him to move away.
He doesn’t.
The heat of his thigh bleeds through fabric. My whole body goes taut. I should shift. Pull back. Create distance. That’s what a smart woman would do.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
Thirty seconds. A full minute. We sit there, barely breathing, his leg pressed against mine like a dare neither of us will back down from.
“Try this,” he says finally, his voice lower than before. He spears something on his fork and holds it toward me.
“I can feed myself.”
“I know. But couples feed each other. Practice, remember?”
I should refuse. I should absolutely refuse.
I lean forward and take the bite.
The flavor bursts on my tongue, rich and tender, but I barely taste it because his eyes are fixed on my mouth. I chew. Swallow. His gaze tracks the movement of my throat.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He picks up another bite. Holds it out.
“I said I could feed myself.”
“And I said we’re practicing.”
“I think we’ve practiced enough for tonight,” I manage.
“Have we?”
“Yes.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he leans back, and the pressure against my leg disappears. I feel the absence like a loss.
He walks me to my car, opening the door for me like this is an actual date.
Then he stops me.
“We should practice how we look when we leave places together.”
Before I can respond, he’s stepping closer. Not quite touching. His hands land on the roof of my car, bracketing my head. His body angles toward mine, chest inches from my chest, nose almost grazing my nose.
I can smell him. Something expensive and warm underneath. I can see the texture of his jaw, the small scar near his eyebrow, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
“This is what it looks like,” he says quietly, “when a man doesn’t want to let a woman go.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can only stand there, pinned by nothing but proximity and the weight of his gaze.
“Goodnight, Valentina.”
He steps back. The cool air rushes in where his warmth was.
I get in the car. Close the door. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the steering wheel.
I make it three blocks before I have to pull over.
I press my fingers to my lips where his thumb touched them.
This is a terrible idea.
I’m going to do it anyway.