Chapter 6 Della
DELLA
Iwatch his face, the way his blue eyes—not pale like a summer sky but deep navy like the ocean at dusk—crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
His jawline could cut glass, softened only by the hint of stubble that catches the amber light of the bar.
There’s something about this man that makes my heart race in a way that’s both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing at the edge of a cliff with the wind whipping around me.
I haven’t felt this kind of instant attraction since. .. well, ever.
Five things about myself in fifteen minutes?
” Axel leans back slightly, his broad shoulders shifting under his perfectly tailored charcoal suit, the fabric stretching across his chest before settling into place.
His fingers—long, with neatly trimmed nails—tap thoughtfully against the polished mahogany of the bar. “That’s quite the challenge, Della.”
The way he says my name—lingering on the first syllable, his voice dropping an octave on the second—sends a shiver from the nape of my neck all the way down my spine.
I take a slow sip of my dirty martini to hide my reaction, the cold glass pressing against my lips, but the juniper bite of the gin does nothing to cool the heat blooming across my cheekbones and the tips of my ears.
“I’m sure a man like you is up for it,” I say, surprising myself with my boldness as I set down my glass, leaving a perfect crescent of lipstick on its rim. Something about his presence—the gravitational pull of him—makes me feel both deliciously vulnerable and recklessly brave.
He chuckles, a deep rumble that vibrates through the air between us like distant thunder. The sound settles somewhere beneath my ribs, warm and resonant. “Alright. Number one: I served eight years in the army before starting my security firm with my brother.”
"That explains the...” I gesture vaguely at his impressive physique—the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the veins visible beneath golden skin, the way he holds himself with perfect posture even when relaxed.
I immediately regret it when his eyebrow quirks up, a slow arch that transforms his expression from merely attentive to devastatingly amused.
“The what?” he prompts, leaning slightly closer, the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something citrusy—intensifying with his movement.
The vigilance,” I recover, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, my fingertips lingering at the sensitive skin of my neck. “You noticed me the moment I walked in, after all.”
"I notice everything,” he says, his voice dropping to a velvet rumble that seems to vibrate through the polished mahogany between us. His pupils dilate slightly, turning those navy eyes almost black at the centers. “But I’ve never noticed anyone quite like you.”
The intensity in his gaze pins me in place, heat blooming across my skin like watercolor on wet paper. The cacophony of the crowded bar fades to white noise. I clear my throat, the crystal stem of my martini glass suddenly slippery between my fingers. “That’s very smooth. Is that thing number two?”
He laughs again, a sound that reveals the edge of a dimple in his left cheek I hadn’t noticed before.
“No, that was just the truth.” He leans forward, the subtle scent of his cologne—something expensive and earthy—enveloping me.
“Thing number two: I never went to college, but I read at least one book a week. Currently working through Dostoyevsky’s complete works. ”
"Russian literature?” I raise an eyebrow, watching the way the amber light catches on his signet ring as he traces the rim of his whiskey glass. “That’s unexpected."
I’m more than what meets the eye,” he says with a hint of self-deprecation, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to reveal the edge of that dimple again. “Thing number three: I’ve never broken a promise. Not once in my life.”
The conviction in his voice catches me off guard, resonating through me like a tuning fork struck against stone.
His eyes—those deep navy pools—hold mine without wavering, not a single blink betraying uncertainty.
Most men I’ve known—especially Jared—treated promises like suggestions, malleable things to be reshaped when inconvenient, discarded tissue-thin excuses piling up between us over seven years.
“That’s... rare,” I say softly, my fingertip tracing a droplet of condensation down my martini glass.
“It shouldn’t be.” His jaw tightens slightly, the tendons in his neck becoming more defined beneath his tanned skin. He taps his signet ring once against the bar, a deliberate punctuation. “A man’s word should mean something.”
The raw honesty in his voice touches something deep inside me, like fingers pressing against a bruise I didn’t know I had. I find myself leaning closer, the edge of the bar pressing into my ribs, wanting to know everything about this man, not just five carefully selected facts.
“Number four,” he continues, checking his watch—a heavy timepiece with a leather band worn soft at the edges. “I can speak three languages fluently, and I’m learning a fourth. Comes in handy in my line of work.”
"Which languages?” I ask, tracing the condensation ring my glass has left on the polished wood between us.
“Spanish, Arabic, and Russian,” he says, each word rolling off his tongue with the confidence of someone who knows exactly who he is. “Working on Mandarin now.” His fingers drum once, twice against his whiskey glass, leaving perfect fingerprints on the crystal.
I’m about to ask him more when I notice his expression shift, his features rearranging themselves into something carved from stone.
The playfulness evaporates from his eyes, replaced by an intensity that makes the air between us feel electrically charged.
He leans forward, close enough that I can see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow, his gaze locked on mine like twin anchors.
“And number five,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that seems to vibrate directly against my sternum. “I’m the man who’s going to marry you.”
My eyes fly open so wide I swear I can feel my lashes brush against my brow bone, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe, my lungs frozen mid-inhale.
The declaration hangs between us like a tangible thing, impossible and somehow inevitable at the same time, vibrating in the narrow space between our bodies.
My lips part to respond—though God knows what I would say, my tongue suddenly thick and useless—when movement at the entrance catches my eye.
Liana.
Her copper hair gleams under the bar lights as she spots me and begins weaving through the Friday night crowd, her face lighting up with recognition, eyebrows raised in curious appraisal of the man beside me. I have thirty seconds before she reaches us, thirty seconds to process what just happened.
“I—” I begin, but Axel cuts me off gently, his large hand moving slightly closer to mine on the polished mahogany, not touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
Your friend’s here,” he says, nodding toward Liana, his eyes never leaving mine, as if memorizing every fleck of color in my irises.
The deep navy of his gaze holds me captive, intense yet somehow gentle.
“But before she arrives, I’d like your number.
I want to call you tomorrow to set up a proper date. ”
I fumble for my phone, fingers suddenly clumsy against the smooth glass screen as I unlock it and hand it to him.
His hands—large, with neatly trimmed nails and that gleaming signet ring—cradle my rose gold iPhone like it’s something precious.
He inputs his number with confident precision, thumbs moving with military efficiency, then calls himself so he has mine.
The entire exchange takes seconds, but feels monumental, like tectonic plates shifting beneath my feet.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he promises, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through my chest as he hands my phone back just as Liana reaches us. His fingers brush against mine—warm, slightly calloused—sending electricity up my arm that tingles all the way to my shoulder.
I’m still trying to process what’s happening when Axel stands, unfolding his six-foot-plus frame until he’s towering over both of us like some golden-skinned Adonis in a tailored charcoal suit.
He extends his hand to Liana with the perfect balance of confidence and respect, shoulders squared but expression open.
“Axel Warner,” he says, his voice smooth as dark chocolate. He extends a long-fingered hand, the cuff of his tailored charcoal jacket slipping back to reveal a flash of gleaming cufflink. “I was just keeping Della company while she waited for you.”
Liana’s eyes light up as she clasps his hand. Her auburn hair catches the bar lights in coppery glints. “Liana Crawford,” she replies, her tone warm. “Thanks for looking after my girl.”
He lets that warmth wash over him, then tilts his head with a slow, confident smile—perfectly straight teeth framed by a day-old stubble.
I watch the subtle power shift in Liana’s posture as his charm flows over her like honey.
He gestures to the bartender, who’s polishing a glass behind a row of flickering candles.
“Please add their drinks to my tab for the evening.”
I clear my throat, cheeks warming. “That’s not necessary.”
His gaze sweeps back to me—calm, magnetic, with dark eyes that feel like they’re tracing the shape of my thoughts. My knees involuntarily grow weak. “I insist.” He leans back, every movement deliberate and easy, like a panther stretching. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Della.”
Then he nods to Liana and glides away, his strides long and powerful.
I can’t stop watching his broad shoulders disappear between tables.
He reaches the corner booth, where another man—tall too, with a teasing grin—waits.
They share a quick, silent exchange before Axel settles in, the booth’s padded leather swallowing him.
The instant he’s out of earshot, Liana tugs me to her, her breath fragrant with citrus and intrigue. “Holy shit,” she hisses, sliding onto the empty stool. “Who was that—and what did you do to deserve him? The man looks like he could bench-press a car while reciting sonnets.”
I bite my lip, a laugh bubbling up, high and jittery. “I have no idea. He just… appeared when that other guy was hitting on me. Then he said—” I hesitate, caught between disbelief and thrill.
“Said what?” Liana leans so close I can see the flecks of green in her eyes.
“He told me five things about himself,” I whisper, voice trembling as a coaster clinks under Liana’s hand. “And the fifth was that he’s the man who’s going to marry me.”
Liana’s jaw drops so hard I swear I hear it. “He said that? On the first meeting? That’s either the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard or straight-up restraining order territory.”
I shrug, swirling my martini. The olive centerpiece glistens under the bar’s warm glow. “Here’s the crazy part—it didn’t feel creepy. It felt…” I close my eyes, searching. “Inevitable.”
“Della York,” Liana says, waving to summon her usual whiskey sour, the ice rattling as the bartender pours. “I’ve known you eight years, and I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that. Not even Jared.”
I lift my glass to my lips. The gin burns just enough, warms my chest. “Especially not Jared,” I admit. “There’s something about him—he’s so… present. Like every second he’s fully here, entirely himself.”
Liana smirks, amber drink perched between her fingers. “Including marrying you, apparently. So when’s the wedding?”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at my cheeks. Across the room, Axel’s head lifts from his brother’s shoulder. He locks eyes with me—and instead of looking away, he holds my gaze. A silent promise flits between us, electric and impossible to ignore.
“Earth to Della,” Liana teases, snapping her fingers a few inches from my face. “You’ve got it bad, girl.”
“I just met him,” I protest, though my racing heart argues otherwise.
Liana chuckles, swirling her drink. “Yet he’s already got your number and promised to call tomorrow.” She tilts her head, conspiratorial. “So what else did this future husband of yours reveal?”
As I recount the other four things he told me—each more surprising than the last—a thrilling anticipation coils in my belly. Tomorrow he’ll call. Tomorrow I’ll hear that smooth voice again. Tomorrow, this reckless, beautiful mystery might start to make sense.
Or maybe it’ll stay inexplicable. Some moments aren’t meant to be explained—just savored.
For once, I’m perfectly fine not knowing what comes next.