Chapter 30 - The Date with Sarah
Elliotts POV
Sanity was never peace. It was order.
My office had it in spades. The espresso machine hissed its approval. The clock ticked like a metronome. My world moved exactly the way I wanted it to, one beat at a time.
Until Lily showed up.
She never knocked when she wanted something. She stood in the doorway, barefoot, in one of those oversized sweaters that made her look younger than she was, which was probably the point.
“Do we have to do this?” she asked. “The wedding. Can’t you just… not?”
I looked up from the contract in front of me. “It’s happening in two Saturdays. I already moved it back a week for you.”
Her eyes flashed. “You’re ruining my life.”
I leaned back, folded my hands. “No, I’m saving it. You’re lucky I was even able to secure your freedom.”
She scoffed. “Sean isn’t stable; he’s a handler.”
“Exactly,” I said. “He knows how to handle you. He’s loyal to me, and that’s enough.”
Her arms crossed, “Is Mom coming?”
“No,” I said. “She’s been unreachable.”
Her laugh was soft and cruel. “Translation: she wants nothing to do with you.”
“That’s enough, Lily.”
She hesitated at the door, like she wanted to throw one more grenade. But she didn’t. She just turned and left, her bare feet silent against the hardwood.
An hour later, another knock. Sean entered without waiting for permission, which was becoming a habit I’d have to correct.
“Morning, sir,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about Lily.”
I didn’t look up from the document on my desk. “What about her?”
“She’s been distant. More than usual. I think she’s... struggling.”
“Of course she’s struggling,” I said. “She’s being forced to evolve. That’s never comfortable.”
Sean shifted his weight, uneasy. “I’m worried it’s more than that. She hardly leaves her room. She isn’t eating.”
I finally looked up. “Then take her out.”
He frowned. “Out?”
“A date, Sean. A distraction. Somewhere public. She’ll perk up when she realizes life goes on whether she likes it or not.”
He nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll plan something.”
“Good.” I returned to my work. “And don’t indulge her theatrics. She’ll adjust.”
Sean lingered, waiting for something I wasn’t offering. When I didn’t look up again, he left quietly.
The room returned to silence. My thoughts didn’t.
They went to Sarah.
Every time I tried to pull focus back to business, her face intervened. The grace in her composure. The precision in her speech. The way she looked at me yesterday like she could see everything I’d done and wasn’t afraid of it. I hadn’t felt that in years.
I opened my laptop, pulled up her public bio from The Concord Initiative website, and stared at the photo for too long. She didn’t smile for the camera. Power radiated from her stillness. Most women used charm. Sarah used restraint.
I picked up my phone and called Montrose Florist. The woman on the line answered in a soft, syrupy voice. “Montrose, this is Claire.”
“I need a delivery,” I said. “White orchids. Two dozen. For Sarah Taylor, Highland Park.”
She repeated the name, and I could almost hear the smile forming. “Yes, I have her here in my files. Card message?”
“Keep it simple. ‘Looking forward to dinner.’”
“From?”
“Eli.”
I ended the call and leaned back, letting the image form in my mind. The flowers arriving at her door. Her expression when she saw them. Surprise, followed by that precise, appreciative smile. A reaction carefully measured, just like everything else she did.
Then I called The Grace Room, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Chicago. It wasn’t the kind of place you could just book; it was the kind of place that called you back if your name carried enough weight. Mine did.
“This is Elliott Thompson,” I said when the ma?tre d’ answered. “A table for two tonight at seven. The private dining suite.”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson. Done.”
Of course it was.
I opened a new message and typed slowly.
Eli: Dinner tonight, 7:00 p.m.
The Grace Room. I’m looking forward to it. – Eli
I hit send, then waited.
It didn’t take long.
Sarah: Wow. The Grace Room? Should I warn them that I eat bread before the salad and won’t pretend to understand the wine list?
I laughed. Out loud. It startled even me.
Eli: Ha. I’ll bring extra bread and let you pick the wine.
Sarah: Deal. Maybe they will have the boxed stuff. See you tonight, Eli.
Her text lingered on my screen. No emoji. No unnecessary punctuation. Just clean humor and confidence.
I stared at her name for a moment longer, then set the phone down. My reflection in the black glass of my desk stared back at me.
“Tonight,” I murmured out loud. “Let’s see how close you’ll let me get.”
The morning stretched long and deliberate, and by noon, control was slipping.
I had been thinking about Sarah all morning, running her voice through my mind like a song I could not stop replaying. I had to tamp my obsession down to something manageable.
By six, I had showered, shaved, and was standing in front of the mirror studying my reflection. I chose a deep charcoal jacket, crisp white shirt, and a dark tie with a subtle sheen. The combination was deliberate, understated. Power disguised as taste.
I tightened my cufflinks and exhaled. “Calm down,” I muttered. “She’s just a woman.”
Then I caught my own expression and smirked. “You’re a liar,” I said to my reflection. I slipped on my watch, grabbed my keys, and left.
The drive to The Grace Room was uneventful. It should have been routine, but my pulse refused to slow. I thought about her voice, the precision in her words, the way she seemed immune to flattery. I admired that, and I absolutely hated that I admired it.
When I pulled into the curved drive of The Grace Room, the restaurant’s golden lights reflected in the windshield like a signal. The valet greeted me. I handed over my keys and buttoned my jacket.
Then I saw her.
Sarah stood by the entrance, hair loose and shining under the soft exterior lighting.
Her black dress was simple and devastating, fitted perfectly, the fabric whispering a honed body beneath when she moved.
The neckline framed her collarbones, and the hint of a gold pendant drew the eye lower than it should.
Her skin held that natural glow that comes from discipline, not indulgence.
“Eli,” she said as I approached, her smile calm and confident. “You look great.”
I let my eyes linger just long enough to make her notice. “My goodness, Sarah. You make beauty look effortless.”
She chuckled, “Oh, this took effort. My daughter wanted to do my makeup. You’re lucky I don’t look like a sparkly unicorn.”
We both laughed and followed the hostess as she led us to a corner table surrounded by candlelight and soft jazz. It was the kind of place where the walls seemed to embrace you.
“Wow, Eli. The Grace Room is something else. I’ve never been here before. If it were to speak, it wouldn’t speak at all, it would… “
“ …it would sing,” I interrupted. “Exactly,” she laughed. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
I stared at her mouth a bit too long, wondering how it would taste against mine.
“So, you are a music lover too?” She asked with pure curiosity.
I kept my eyes on the menu and nodded. “I like music that makes you feel something.”
She tilted her head, “You’re not going to tell me you listen to classical music while twirling your hand around in the air like Hannibal Lecter, are you?”
I laughed. “The man was insane, but he had good taste in music.”
Now she was laughing, too, and we didn’t stop when the waiter came to check on us. We gained composure long enough to order our food.
She leaned in once he left, “Okay, game time. Screw, marry, kill. Have you ever played?”
I chuckled, “Do you mean Fuck, marry, kill? Yes, I’ve played.”
She nodded, “Your choices are books, movies, and music.”
I leaned back. “This is a completely unfair question and impossible to answer,” I protested.
“Maybe,” she said. But you’re going to answer it. I have my answer, but you go first.”
“All right.” I pretended to think. “Kill books, marry music, and fuck movies.”
She gasped, feigning offense. “You’d kill books? I thought you were cultured.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s your answer then?”
She smiled slowly, the kind of smile that carried both amusement and challenge. “The same as yours.”
The waiter brought halibut glazed with truffle butter, and she closed her eyes after the first bite, letting the flavor settle before speaking. “You can always tell when a chef respects restraint.”
I watched her for a moment. “You seem to be having a moment over there. Should I give you some privacy?”
She smiled without opening her eyes. “You should try it before you mock me.”
I did. Perfect balance, silk and salt in equal measure. “Fair. He knows what he’s doing.”
She nodded toward my plate. “You’re not one of those people who salt everything before tasting it, are you?”
“Never,” I said. “I believe in letting things simmer, take on flavor and texture.”
Both of her brows lifted. “So, you can use a crockpot?”
“I do all right. I’ll put it this way: I won’t starve.”
She smiled softly, then took another bite. “I used to cook all the time. These days, I’m mostly negotiating with small humans about what qualifies as dinner. Apparently, mac and cheese from a box is a balanced meal.”
“Small humans,” I said, amused. “I take it your children are connoisseurs of the finer things.”
“Connoisseurs of bedlam,” she said. “But yes, they have opinions. My son has declared vegetables an act of war.”
“He sounds like a visionary,” I said.
That made her laugh, a low, real sound that hit somewhere I didn’t expect. “You don’t have children, do you?”
“Yes,” I said. “She’s an adult now, all grown up. These days, my interactions are mostly with employees. Similar dynamic, less cute.”
“Ah,” she said, setting down her fork. “So what is it you do, exactly?”
“Consulting,” I said, careful to keep it vague. “I help organizations manage perception, rebuild when things go sideways.”
“So… image repair.”
“That’s the unglamorous term.”
She tilted her head. “Do you enjoy your work?”
“I do,” I said. “There’s something satisfying about making disorder look composed.”
She smiled, eyes warm but sharp. “So you like control.”
“I like balance,” I said. “Control is just how most people describe it when they don’t have it.”
Her lips curved. “That’s a very careful answer.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She sat back, studying me in that quiet, observant way she had. “You’re a pleasant surprise, Eli. I didn’t expect to enjoy this as much as I am.”
“Good,” I said. “I was beginning to think I’d misjudged my own charm.”
She lifted her glass. “Don’t worry. It’s intact.”
We lingered over dessert, the conversation winding through music, travel, and the strange comfort of living alone.
When the plates were cleared, I leaned forward slightly. “I have a question, Sarah.”
Her gaze met mine, curious. “You got very serious all of the sudden.”
“There’s a wedding in two Saturdays. I’d like you to come with me. As my date.”
Her expression softened into something unreadable. “That’s... unexpectedly forward.”
“Then I’ll blame the wine.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay, that’s not a no.”
When we walked out, I touched the small of her back, light and deliberate. She didn’t move away. The valet called her car, but neither of us looked up. The night had thinned to a hush, the kind that feels like permission.
“Goodnight, Eli,” she said, her voice quiet but sure.
“Not yet.”
She turned to face me, the city lights catching in her hair. For a second, neither of us breathed. I could taste her perfume in the air — clean, expensive, the kind that stays just long enough to haunt you.
I cupped her face, my thumb grazing her jaw.
Her lips parted, not from surprise but invitation.
The first brush was slow, exploratory, and then something inside both of us gave way.
She pressed closer, her fingers at my collar, pulling me in.
The kiss deepened, no hurry, no caution, just heat disguised as control.
When we finally broke apart, she exhaled a laugh that trembled. “That was… unexpected.”
“Not for me,” I said.
She smiled, the kind that promised trouble. “I’ll text you when I get home.”
The valet opened her door, and she slid inside without looking back. I stood there, pulse still unsteady, tasting her on my lips and knowing I wasn’t done. Not even close.
Hours later, her text arrived, lighting up the screen with her name. I had chosen her headshot as her contact photo, but I intended to change it to something more intimate.
Sarah: About the wedding. The answer is yes.
Eli: Excellent. Let me take you out again tomorrow night.
Sarah: You don’t waste time.
Eli: I think you are wonderful, Sarah. I want to get to know you.
I pressed send and smiled to myself. I downed another Scotch and headed to the Velvet Bruise.