Chapter 50
Chapter fifty
Emma
The smell hit first—garlic, basil, wine, bread. The same intoxicating blend that had greeted me all those months back.
Then the jazz. Low and warm, curling through the air like smoke.
Candlelight flickered in wall sconces, casting dancing shadows across rough brick. Shelves lined with old bottles. The intimate hum of conversation from couples tucked into corners. All of it exactly as I remembered.
A hostess approached, and time seemed to stall.
Her.
The woman from that first night. She looked exactly as I remembered—dark hair pinned back, simple black dress, composure that came from years of greeting guests.
"Good evening." Her smile was warm. "Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes. Holt. Party of two."
"Right this way."
I followed her through the maze of tables, retracing the path I'd walked before. Past couples leaning close over wine glasses. Past the low murmur of conversation and the clink of silverware. Past the life happening all around me while anticipation thrummed low in my belly.
Holt, party of two.
Not Read. Not a stranger hiding behind a screen.
Holt.
The name I would—
I stopped the thought before it could finish. Too soon. Too presumptuous. We were celebrating tonight, not—
The hostess paused at the entrance to the alcove.
The same alcove.
The very corner where I'd sat alone, smoothing my dress, checking my phone, counting the seconds until a man I'd never met walked around that corner and changed my life.
"Here we are," she said, stepping aside.
The world fell away.
Flowers.
Thousands of flowers.
They cascaded from every surface—roses and peonies and gardenias spilling from urns on the floor, climbing up trellises that hadn't been there before, draping from the ceiling in ribbons of white and blush and deep, romantic red. Petals scattered across the floor like snow.
Candles flickered everywhere—tea lights nestled among the blooms, pillar candles glowing on stands, the warm light turning the alcove into something from a dream.
Something too beautiful to believe.
And in the center of it all—
Damien.
He stood beside a table set for two, dressed in a dark suit. In his hands, he held a bouquet.
Orchids and peonies, tied with silver ribbon. A small card was tucked among the stems, words written in Damien's looping script.
My hands flew to my mouth.
"Damien." His name came out broken between my fingers. "What is this?"
He closed the few feet between us, petals crushing softly beneath his shoes. The scent of his cologne—Solar Blaze, leather and citrus—wrapped around me, warm and familiar.
"This," he said quietly, "is me doing what I should have done the first time you walked into this room."
He extended the bouquet toward me.
My hands trembled as I took it.
"Read the card," he instructed.
For you. Then, now, and always. —D
"The first time you came here," Damien said, his voice low and rough, "you were meeting a stranger. A man who'd lied to you. Who'd manipulated circumstances to get close to you." His voice shook. "You deserved so much better than what I gave you that night."
"Damien—"
"Let me finish."
He reached up, his thumbs brushing my cheek.
"I can't undo what happened. I can't take back the way you felt when you realized who I was. The way you cried in that bathroom while I sat at this table, knowing I'd destroyed something precious."
He gestured at the flowers surrounding us. "But I can give you this now. A new memory. A better one."
I laughed—a noise so full of love I thought I might burst.
His smile was like a sunrise as he pulled me into his arms.
We'd survived.
The flowers released their scent as the candles flickered against the wine bottles.
Eventually, reluctantly, his arms unwound.
Damien pulled out my chair and I sank into it.
"How long have you been planning this?"
"Longer than I'd like to admit." A sheepish smile tugged at his mouth as he took his seat across from me.
"I had to coordinate with the restaurant weeks ago. Everyone thought I was proposing."
Proposing?
My blood ran cold.
"Everyone here helped. When I explained why this restaurant mattered—why tonight mattered—they were all in. Marina's doesn't usually allow celebrations like this, but the owner made an exception."
"Because you're Damien Holt?"
"Because I told her the truth."
He reached for my hand, his thumb tracing slow circles across my knuckles.
"That I wanted to give my woman the night she deserved—the one I stole from her the first time."
"You're going to ruin my makeup," I managed, dabbing the inner corner of my eye with the corner of my napkin.
"Good." He grinned wide. "It means I'm doing something right."
The waiter appeared with wine—the same cabernet I'd ordered before. He filled each of our glasses with practiced precision.
Damien released my hand and lifted his glass as the waiter slipped away.
"To us," he said, candlelight glittering along the crystal. "Then, now, and always."
Our glasses met with a soft clink, and I drank—the wine rich and smooth on my tongue.
I set my glass down, gesturing around the room. "This is too much."
"It isn't nearly enough," Damien countered, leaning back in his chair. "I promised I'd buy you hundreds of flowers, thousands, millions."
I chuckled, catching the callback—the night we'd danced among the petals. "What about the moon on a pedestal?" I asked. "Do I still get that?"
He shrugged. "I tried to contact NASA, but apparently even I don't have that much pull."
I laughed, the sound bright and free in the flower-filled alcove.
"Your billions can't buy everything, then?"
"Apparently not." He swirled his wine, a mock-serious expression settling on his face. "I did look into naming a star after you, but it felt tacky."
"Very tacky," I agreed. "I'd have expected at least a constellation."
"Noted for next time."
"Next time?" I raised an eyebrow. "You're planning to fill more restaurants with flowers?"
"Only if you keep giving me reasons to celebrate." His eyes glinted in the candlelight. "At this rate, I'll have to buy out a florist permanently. Keep them on retainer."
"That seems excessive."
"You deserve excessive." He said it simply, like it was a fact. Like the sky was blue and water was wet and Emma Sinclair deserved thousands of flowers on a week night.
I shook my head, giggling. "You're ridiculous."
"You like it."
"I tolerate it."
"Liar." He set his glass down and leaned forward, elbows on the table, that familiar intensity creeping into his expression. "I saw your face when you walked around that corner."
Heat crept up my neck.
"Fine," I admitted. "It's... effective."
"Effective." He repeated the word flatly. "I transform a room into a garden, and I get effective."
"Would you prefer adequate?"
"I'd prefer breathtaking. Extraordinary. The most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. Maybe even a blow job beneath the table."
I threw my head back and laughed. "That was my plan for earlier."
"You've got to be kidding me," he said, jaw going slack.
"Nope. I was ready to tie my hair back and—"
"That fucking dick from Singapore," he snapped.
I giggled, taking another sip of my wine.
He chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
"For the record," I said, biting back a grin. "This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me."
"Is it?"
"You know it is."
I gestured at the cascading roses, the candles, the petals scattered across the floor.
"This is... I don't even have words. No one has ever—" I stopped, the emotion sneaking up on me despite my best efforts. "No one has ever gone to this much trouble for me before."
"Then everyone else was a fool," he said simply.
I smiled at him just as the waiter entered the room, plates balanced on his arms.
"Really?" I said as the waiter placed Damien's order on the table.
Steak, medium rare, seasonal vegetables, sweet potato. Extra brown sugar on the side.
"Of course," he said. "I ordered the same thing the next night at Rosie's birthday dinner. The day you made me wait until evening to text me back. I had to hold back tears the entire meal—it was agony."
I jutted out my bottom lip and mocked, "Oh, I'm so sorry I made you sad."
He only smiled as the waiter placed my dish in front of me.
"The lobster ravioli," I realized, rolling my eyes. "You remembered my meal as well?"
"I remember everything about that night." He picked up his knife and fork. "Including the fact that you barely touched it."
"Well." I speared one of the delicate pillows with my fork. Steam curled from the butter-glossed pasta. "Let's see if it's any good."
Amazing.
Rich and tender, the lobster filling practically melting on my tongue, herbs and brown butter and just a hint of lemon cutting through the richness. I made a sound that was probably inappropriate for a public restaurant.
Damien's fork froze halfway to his mouth.
"If you keep making noises like that," he said, voice dropping, "we're not going to make it through the main course."
"I can't help it." I took another bite, letting my eyes flutter closed. "This is obscene."
"You're obscene."
"I'm appreciating the food," I moaned. "There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm sitting." He set his fork down, watching me with an intensity that made my skin warm. "From where I'm sitting, you're making sounds that belong in a very different context."
I opened my eyes. The candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face, the hunger he wasn't bothering to hide.
"Eat your steak," I said primly. "And your dessert potato."
"It's not a dessert potato."
"You have a ramekin of brown sugar. That makes it dessert."
"That makes it edible." He spooned a generous amount onto the split sweet potato. "I don't understand people who eat them plain."
"Normal people. Normal people eat them plain."
"Normal people are missing out." He picked up his fork and took a bite.
The brown sugar glistened on his lips before his tongue swept it away.
I looked back down at my ravioli. Safer territory.
The jazz curling around us as we ate, the candles flickering in their brackets. Every now and then I'd glance up and catch him watching me.
"Stop staring," I said, spearing another ravioli.
"No."
"It's unsettling."
"It's appreciative." He cut another bite of steak. "I'm appreciating the view. You appreciated the food. Fair's fair."
"Those aren't the same thing."
"They're exactly the same thing." His eyes dropped to my mouth as I took another bite. "You're enjoying your meal. I'm enjoying watching you enjoy your meal. Everyone wins."
The intensity of his gaze made it difficult to swallow.
"You're impossible," I managed.
"You like it."
I didn't dignify that with a response—mostly because he was right.
The conversation drifted as we worked through our plates—lighter topics, easier ones. Tessa's betting pool. The look on Dorothy's face when we'd walked into HR.
I scraped the last of the brown butter from my plate, mourning the end of the meal.
"That was incredible."
"Better than the first time?"
"Much better."
The memory still carried weight, but it no longer crushed me.
Now it was just a chapter of our story.
Damien's hand rested over mine across the table. I turned my palm up, lacing my fingers through his.
"I'd ask if you wanted dessert, but the—"
"Their tiramisu is absolute shit," I said, cutting him off with a laugh.
He leaned forward. "Right?"
"It was so dry!" I stage-whispered.
"How does that even happen?"
"I've got no idea," he laughed. "Don't mention it to Rosie. She'll drown you in her 'world famous' version for weeks."
The waiter reappeared, clearing our plates.
"Can I interest you in dessert this evening? The tiramisu is particularly excellent."
I glanced at Damien. He glanced at me—face going red with the effort of not laughing.
"No thank you," he managed. "But please pass my compliments to the chef. Everything was exceptional."
"Of course, Mr. Holt. Enjoy your evening."
He vanished into the sea of flowers.
"Ready?" Damien asked, turning towards me.
Ready to leave.
To go home.
For whatever came next.
"Yes," I said. "I'm ready."