32. Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Lina
By the time Alex finishes the dishes, the kitchen looks the way it did before we had dinner. Clean and orderly.
I’m still perched on the counter, finishing the story about how Val and I came up with Enchanted Nook, about late-night planning sessions and laughter that turned into something tangible.
“And that’s how Enchanted Nook was born,” I finish, smiling. “Equal parts delusion and determination.”
Alex chuckles. “Well, delusion and determination paid off.”
He reaches into one of the bags he brought earlier and pulls out a bottle of wine. “I brought this Vin Santo along with dessert,” he says. “I might’ve made something.”
My eyebrows lift. “You might’ve made something?”
“Tiramisu,” he admits, almost casually as he opens the fridge and pulls out a dish.
I smile wide.
He pours us each a modest glass of wine, plates the dessert with care. One serving for me, one for him. He treats it with the same respect he did dinner.
We move into the living room and sit across from each other; plates balanced easily in our hands. The entirety of it has an odd sense of normalcy. As if this is routine instead of a first date.
“This is so yummy,” I say after my first bite, moaning with pure delight.
He smirks, watching me groan after each bite thereafter.
“I’ll have to make it again…just to hear those sounds,” he says.
I open my eyes and gulp a bite down, nearly choking.
He’s on his feet instantly, setting his plate aside and reaching for my glass to pour more wine. “Easy,” he says, steady but amused. “Too much can be fatal.”
I wave him off after a second, swallowing hard before giving him a glance. “You did that on purpose.”
His mouth curves. “Maybe.”
I take another sip of wine, slower this time, pointedly ignoring the way his eyes track the movement. The tiramisu is so tasty—light and rich all at once, soaked enough that it melts instead of collapsing.
“You’re dangerous,” I say. “You know that, right?”
He leans back into his seat, relaxed, one arm draped along the back of the couch as if he belongs there. “I’ve been told.”
I take another bite, smaller this time, but I don’t fight the sound that slips out of me. His eyebrow lifts in quiet triumph.
“God,” I mutter. “This is really good.”
The normalcy of it hits me. Wine. Dessert. A couch. The absence of the tension that usually knots itself around me whenever a man gets too close. There’s heat here, yes—but it’s contained.
“That was a lot of effort for a first dessert,” I say lightly.
He shrugs. “I don’t do half measures.”
Something about how he speaks—easy, factual—sends a slow awareness down my spine.
My eyes flick to him over my spoon. “Is that a fact?”
His gaze holds mine, unblinking. “Just being transparent.”
I laugh, shaking my head, and take another bite. “I can see that.”
For a while, we both remain silent. The room grows silent except for spoons clinking and the house’s faint hum. It’s intimate.
I steal a look at him again and catch him watching me—not hungrily, not possessively. Attentively. As if he’s memorizing the moment.
The moment stretches, warm and unhurried, until the weight of it eases into something quieter.
I finish my tiramisu, letting the sweetness linger while the conversation drifts—away from teasing and tension and into something easier to breathe in. He asks small questions. The kind that gives the impression of invitations rather than interrogations.
We discuss how close I am to my siblings and how much I miss them. About growing up fast and learning early what it means to show up for other people. I tell him how the business has taken more of me than I realized, how it’s filled my days and bleeds into my nights.
He listens the same way he cooks. Attentive. Unrushed. And I haven’t once had the urge to guard myself.
“Today is actually the first real day off I’ve had,” I admit. “Which seems ironic, considering why.”
He nods, understanding without me having to say Cole’s name.
“I wish it hadn’t taken that to slow me down,“ I add. “But…the break is nice.”
“Glad you did.” He agrees.
I set my plate aside and tilt my head. “So where do you live when you’re not bouncing around?”
“I’ve got a condo in Queens,” he says. “That’s home base when I’m not on a job.”
“Ah…that makes sense,” I reply. “Since you grew up there.”
I pause and ask, “Krav Maga,” I say. “When did that start for you?”
His expression shifts. “When I was eight.”
“Eight?” I repeat.
“My father insisted,” he says. “Krav Maga. MMA. Anything that taught discipline and compliance...” He shrugs lightly. “I never stopped.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I suppose so. Even when we couldn’t afford it,” he continues, “My sensei and coaches let me train. No charge. It kept me off the street. Probably saved my life in more ways than one.”
I study him. The calm strength, the quiet confidence, the depth beneath it.
“That explains a lot,” I say softly.
“Good or bad?” he asks.
“Good,” I answer without hesitation.
We don’t move all at once. It happens in inches. A shift of weight. A turn of the shoulder. Until my arm brushes his.
It’s light. Accidental. And yet neither of us pulls away.
I notice how close he is now—the warmth of him, the way the gap separating us has disappeared while we weren’t paying attention. Perhaps while we were pretending not to.
Alex lifts his hand, hesitates for the briefest moment, before gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers remain there, long enough for it to hold meaning.
He swallows. And now I’m aware of everything.
His eyes first—hazel up close, flecked with gold and green, steady but searching. His dark hair, the way threads of pepper show through when the light hits it perfectly. His skin, beautifully tanned, almost unfairly perfect, with ink stretching upwards.
My gaze drops, inadvertently, and catches on his mouth.
Full. Soft-looking. Like they were made to fit mine.
Heat floods me.
We sit there for a while longer, wine gone, dessert gone, the conversation drifting easily from one subject to the next.
And after everything—after the fear, the exhaustion—this simple normalcy seems most unexpected.
I glance back up—and find him watching me.
Not a quick glance. Not polite interest. Alex’s eyes move over me, as though he’s committing every detail to memory. He’s been careful all night, respectful almost to a fault, and somehow that makes the weight of his gaze heavier now that he’s let it slip.
My stomach flutters. It gives me permission to look back.
He sports black jeans and a black T-shirt, both fitting so precisely they appear to be made to measure. Broad shoulders, lean waist, and bulky strength. Since knowing him, he looks relaxed—and devastatingly handsome because of it.
The moment stretches, our breathing heavy now.
He exhales. “Fuck it.”