Chapter 6: The First Dinner
921 Words
It started with a simple question.
“Dinner?” Marco asked, leaning against the doorway of Isabel’s office, holding two folders in his hand and a tired smile on his face.
Isabel looked up from her screen, brows raised. “Are you asking me out or bribing me to read another proposal?”
He laughed. “A little of both. But mostly, I thought you could use a break.”
She hesitated, glancing at the clock. It was already 7:10 p.m. She hadn't eaten since a rushed breakfast at her desk. Her inbox was still overflowing—but Marco was still standing there, looking at her not like a colleague, but like someone who noticed her.
Not the philanthropist. Not the face of the foundation.
Just her.
“Alright,” she said, closing her laptop. “But I get to choose the place.”
“Deal,” he said, already texting something on his phone. “No press. No donors. Just food. Real food.”
She smiled. “And maybe wine?”
He nodded. “Definitely wine.”
They ended up at a small Italian bistro tucked in the side streets of BGC—warm lighting, no-frills décor, and the soft sound of an acoustic guitar playing somewhere in the background. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t public. It felt like a hidden world, just for the two of them.
Isabel wore a simple black dress and tied her hair into a loose ponytail. Marco had changed into a soft gray shirt and slacks, still managing to look frustratingly effortless.
Over burrata and truffle risotto, they laughed more than they talked business.
He told her about his failed attempt at baking sourdough during lockdown. She told him about the time she accidentally wore mismatched shoes to a televised interview. He mimicked her expression from a video she didn’t even know he had seen, and she nearly spit out her drink laughing.
“I didn’t realize you were this funny,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
“I’m not. You’re just hungry and sleep-deprived,” he teased.
“No, really. I always saw you as the serious type.”
“And I always thought you were the kind of person who never lets her guard down.”
She blinked. “That’s… accurate.”
“Not tonight,” he added gently.
Their eyes met across the candle-lit table. The silence stretched—not awkward, not heavy. Just… full.
Of questions unasked.
Of possibilities unspoken.
Of feelings that hadn’t quite found their name.
After dessert—tiramisu and espresso—they lingered over the last of the wine, the restaurant now mostly empty. Outside, the city glowed with the muted beauty of nearing midnight. Inside, the world was just them.
Isabel tilted her head. “Why did you really ask me to dinner?”
Marco paused, setting down his glass. “Because I wanted to know who you are when you’re not ‘Isabel Reyes CEO of Hearts United.’”
She smiled faintly. “And what have you learned?”
“That you love olives but hate capers. That you say ‘I’m fine’ when you’re overwhelmed. And that you laugh with your whole face when you forget to be cautious.”
She looked down at her hands. “That’s… surprisingly observant.”
“I’ve been observing for a while,” he said.
Her heart skipped.
He continued, more quietly now, “And I guess, selfishly, I just wanted a few hours where it’s just us. No meetings. No projects. Just two people sharing space.”
She met his gaze, her throat suddenly tight. “That’s not selfish, Marco.”
“Feels like it, sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because the more I enjoy it,” he said, voice nearly a whisper, “the more I wonder if I’m stepping into something I shouldn’t.”
A hush fell between them.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
“I wonder the same thing,” she said honestly.
His eyes searched hers, full of something fragile and dangerous.
But he didn’t reach for her hand. Didn’t lean forward. Didn’t cross the invisible line between them.
Instead, he smiled softly and stood. “Let me walk you out.”
The night air was cool as they stepped into the empty street. Their shoulders brushed slightly as they walked—close, but not close enough to touch. There was a sweetness to it. A tension, too. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and marveling at how beautiful the view is—before deciding not to jump.
At the curb, her driver waited. But she didn’t move to get in.
“Thank you,” she said. “For tonight.”
Marco tucked his hands in his pockets. “It was… nice. Different.”
“Good different?”
He nodded. “Very.”
There was a moment, right then, when something could have happened.
A confession. A kiss. A step closer.
But instead, Marco reached for her hand—not to hold it, not to make a move—but to lift it gently, squeeze it once, then let go.
“Goodnight, Isabel.”
And then he turned and walked toward his own car without looking back.
She stood there a moment longer, the warmth of his hand still lingering on hers.
And in her chest bloomed something soft, tentative, and terrifying.
Something that felt very much like the beginning of love.
But not yet.
Not quite.
Not tonight.
Just… soon.
Maybe.
- Writer
