13. ZARA
ZARA
Not a Date
Ichange my outfit three times.
Which is ridiculous.
This is not a date.
It’s dinner. A thank-you dinner. A completely reasonable, totally professional dinner between a man and a woman who are about to get married.
I try not to look too closely at the flicker of disappointment when Jaxon made it very clear this wasn’t a date—how he emphasized it, just to make sure I understood.
Like I might not be able to keep my hands to myself.
God.
I’ll show him I can.
I stare at my reflection, hands on my hips.
“Get it together,” I mutter.
The dress I’ve landed on is simple. Dark. Fitted without trying too hard. The kind of thing that says effortless, even though I’ve spent the last twenty minutes deciding between this and something softer. Something less… noticeable.
I smooth my hands down my sides.
Why do I care what he thinks?
I don’t. Obviously.
I grab my phone, then pause. Then turn back to the mirror and check my hair again.
“Okay, you care a little,” I admit under my breath.
A knock sounds on my door.
Perfect timing.
“Yeah?” I call, forcing my voice into something casual.
“Ready?” Jaxon’s voice carries through the wood.
My stomach does something traitorous.
“Yeah. Coming.”
I take one last look at myself, then open the door.
He’s standing in the hallway, one hand braced against the wall like he’s been there for a second. Waiting.
And then he looks up—and stops.
I can’t read his expression. Does he think the dress is too much? Does he think I look good?
I have no idea. And he doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he pushes off the wall and offers me his hand.
I take it. Just because I’m wearing heels and might need help getting down the stairs with my dignity intact, of course.
His hand is dry and steady, completely enveloping mine.
Downstairs, he helps me into my coat. His fingers brush my shoulders as he settles it in place, the contact brief. Still, it sends a shiver up my spine.
Because I’m apparently a masochist, I ask, “So, just to make sure—this is not a date? I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
The second the words are out, I want to take them back, because I can hear how hollow they sound.
Jaxon glances at me, something flickering in his eyes—curiosity, maybe. Or something sharper.
“Right,” he confirms. “This is not a date.”
I nod, like that settles something. Like that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.
“Good,” I say. “That would be awkward.”
“Right,” he agrees.
Outside, the city is alive—lights, movement, the low hum of everything continuing whether we’re ready for it or not.
He leads me toward the car, his hand briefly touching my back to guide me.
Once we’re in the car, I can’t help myself.
“But just hypothetically,” I say, picking the conversation back up—because apparently I enjoy making things worse for myself—“if this were a date… what’s your go-to move?”
His mouth twitches slightly. “My go-to move?”
“Yeah,” I say lightly. “You know. Your signature. The thing that makes women fall at your feet.”
He exhales a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You think I have one of those?”
I give him a look. “You’re rich, successful, and handsome. Don’t pretend you don’t have a system.”
“I don’t have a system,” he says.
I tilt my head, studying him. “Please.”
“I don’t.” His gaze flicks to me again, more focused now. “You seem very interested in this.”
“I’m making conversation,” I say quickly.
“Mm.”
“That’s what people do on not-dates,” I add.
“Right.”
There’s a beat. Then he says, quieter, “I don’t take a lot of women out.”
I blink. That’s not what I expected. At all.
“Really?” I ask skeptically.
“Really.”
I cross my arms, leaning back slightly. “I don’t believe you.”
He huffs out a breath. “I didn’t say none. I said not a lot.”
“Okay,” I concede. “These women you didn’t take out very often—did they usually make it to a second date?”
His grip shifts slightly on the steering wheel.
“Why does it matter?” he asks.
“It doesn’t,” I say immediately.
Lie. Lie. Lie.
I turn to the window again, but my mind is already running in a direction I don’t like.
I think of all the women he’s taken out. That he’s kissed. That he’s done other stuff with.
Apparently, you can be irrationally annoyed at a bunch of women you’ve never even met.
I shift in my seat, fingers brushing absently over the fabric of my dress.
Finally, he answers with a sigh, like he’s already over this conversation. “There weren’t many second dates.”
That surprises me.
I glance at him again. “Your standards are that high?”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe you’re just difficult.”
“That too.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth despite everything.
“Good to know,” I murmur. “So I can be really glad this isn’t a date, huh?”
“Probably true.”
We arrive at the restaurant, and it’s fancier than I expected.
Low lighting. Polished surfaces.
The kind of place where people speak a little quieter without being told to.
I glance at him, uncertain, because everything about this screams “date” to me.
A hostess approaches, her smile brightening slightly when she recognizes him.
“Mr. Halberg. Your table is ready.”
I follow as we’re led deeper into the restaurant, aware of the subtle shift in attention around us. People notice him. And by extension—they notice me.
Our table is tucked into a corner. Thankfully, some privacy.
I slide into the booth, smoothing my dress automatically, while he takes the seat across from me.
For a second, we just look at each other.
“You didn’t tell me it would be like this,” I say.
I can tell he has no idea what I mean. “Like what?”
“Elegant?” I gesture around. “Upscale? Expensive? All of the above?”
He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. You deserve nice things. And I know how to treat my future wife.”
I nearly choke on my own spit.
But before I can make a bigger fool of myself, a waiter appears.
“Good evening. Can I start you with—”
He pauses, glancing between us, a faint knowing smile tugging at his lips.
“—a bottle of wine?”
We order one, and it arrives quickly. Thank God. This is exactly what my nerves need.
The waiter pours, then disappears again, leaving us alone in a dim, intimate pocket of the restaurant.
I take a sip, and the wine blooms across my tongue, rich with layers I can’t even name.
His mouth curves slightly as he watches me, saying nothing.
Which somehow makes me even more nervous. What am I supposed to talk about?
I study the menu like it’s a bomb-defusal manual until I settle on the pasta.
The problem is, once we’ve both ordered, the silence between us feels even heavier.
“So Lily told me you made a dragon potion today.”
I laugh, relieved we’ve found a safe topic. “Yeah. Juice, some raspberries, sparkling water, and edible glitter.”
We keep talking about her, but I still take more sips of the wine than I probably should.
By the time our food arrives, a soft warmth spreads through my chest, smoothing the sharp edges of everything I’ve been trying to keep under control.
Jaxon notices. A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Easy,” he says.
“I am easy.”
His brow lifts.
“Not like that,” I add quickly, internally cringing at myself.
His mouth twitches. “Good clarification.”
The wine is even better with the food. Honestly, it’s delicious.
The restaurant is beautiful, the food is unlike anything I’ve tasted before, and the company…
I’m not even sure what I was so nervous about. This is… easy. Relaxing.
Jaxon keeps looking at me, something warm in his eyes, a quiet smile playing at his mouth.
This grumpy man—smiling. At me.
“Were they pretty?” I ask out of nowhere.
His brow furrows. “What?”
“The women,” I clarify. “The not-many.”
He leans back slightly, studying me now. “Zara… is it possible you’re just a little bit jealous?”
“Jealous? Me?” My voice is full of outrage—convincing even to my own ears. “I just want to know what I’m up against.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I blink.
“Not competing,” I correct quickly. “Wrong word.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Interesting choice, though.”
“It was a slip.”
“Mm.”
“Because this isn’t a date.”
“Exactly.”
“We both know that. I know it, you know it. So there’s no room for confusion.”
Jaxon quietly signals for the check. I’m pretty sure he’s decided he doesn’t want to spend another second with this lunatic. Or he thinks I’ve had enough to drink.
We stand. I reach for my bag, misjudge the distance, and knock it against the edge of the table.
“Smooth,” I mutter.
Jaxon is already there, steadying it—and me—with a hand at my elbow. “Got you.”
His voice is softer now.
I glance up at him, closer than I expected. “Thanks.”
“Have you had too much?” he asks.
“No.”
A beat.
“…maybe a little.”
His mouth twitches.
“Come on,” he says, offering his arm.
I hesitate for a second, suspicious of what that might mean.
Then I slip my hand through his arm.
As we walk toward the car, my foot catches slightly, and I let out a surprised laugh as I stumble into him.
He tightens his grip instantly, his hand coming to my waist to steady me.
“Yeah,” he says dryly. “Maybe a little.”
We stand in front of the car for a moment, the city stretching out around us.
“This was nice,” I say finally.
“I thought it was very nice.”
I glance at him. “Very nice.”
There’s a beat. The kind that stretches just a little too long.
I’m still close. Closer than I need to be. My hand still curled around his arm, his hand still firm at my waist.
My fingers slide from his arm to the front of his jacket, curling lightly into the fabric. I can feel the warmth of him through it. The steady rise and fall of his chest.
My heart starts beating faster.
The rational part of my brain must be offline, because I act on instinct.
I push up on my toes and lean in, aiming for his mouth.
His hand comes up, catching my wrist gently before I can close the last inch between us.
“Hey,” he says, low and steady.
I blink, confused for a second, still halfway leaning into him.
“What?” I ask, like a complete idiot.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
I freeze. “Oh.”
He clears his throat. “It wasn’t even a date, Zara.”
His words hit like a cold shower, sobering me instantly.
Not too long ago, he had me up against a wall on media day. Today, he won’t even kiss me.
I guess a kiss after a romantic dinner means something—something real—while what happened at the arena was just another hookup to him.
God. What did I just do?
On the drive back, neither of us speaks, and we exchange an awkward goodnight when we reach the apartment.
I lie awake for a while after that, replaying just how stupid I was.