Catch But Don't Release

Chapter 10

They arrived at an elegant restaurant tucked away behind tall glass doors and soft golden lighting. Emily took it in as she stepped out of the car, relief washing over her when she realized she had dressed perfectly for the space. She fit here. Not out of place. Not overwhelmed.

Brody exited first and turned immediately, extending his hand. The gesture was smooth, practiced—but when her fingers slid into his, it felt anything but routine. As she stepped onto the pavement, he didn’t let go right away. Instead, his hand drifted to the small of her back, guiding her forward with gentle certainty.

The touch was light. Respectful.

Yet it sent awareness rushing through her all the same.

She could feel how close he was, how intentional his movements were, as if he simply needed to be near her without saying so. When he opened the restaurant door, she walked in ahead of him, keenly aware of his presence just behind her.

The host looked up with a polite smile.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?”

Brody straightened slightly, his tone shifting into calm professionalism.

“Yes. Brody Thornton.”

The host’s expression changed immediately—nervous, deferential.

“Ah—yes. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton. Right this way.”

Emily froze for half a second, shock flashing through her.

Mrs. Thornton?

She glanced at Brody, expecting him to correct the mistake—but he didn’t. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifted, amused. And somehow, she followed along, heart pounding as they were led through the restaurant.

They reached a private section framed by a massive window overlooking the city lights. It was quiet, intimate—secluded without feeling hidden.

Brody pulled out her chair.

“Mrs. Thornton,” he said lightly, clearly teasing.

Her eyes widened, and his soft chuckle followed—low, genuine, effortless. The sound made her smile before she could stop herself. She swatted his arm playfully.

“Not funny,” she said as she sat.

Before she could tuck her chair in, he leaned down, close enough that only she could hear him.

“You’re blushing,” he murmured. “And it’s cute.”

Her breath hitched.

Goosebumps rippled across her skin as she felt the warmth of his voice near her ear. He straightened as if nothing had happened, then took the seat beside her—not across from her. Beside her. Close.

The waiter arrived, and Brody ordered with ease.

“Two waters,” he said, then added, “And a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.”

He turned to her, voice softer.

“Anything else, love?”

Emily felt heat rush to her cheeks again.

“No, thank you.”

Brody picked up the menu and used the excuse to lean closer, pointing out dishes, explaining flavors, recommending what would pair best with the wine. She nodded along, but her focus slipped—drawn instead to the subtle scent of his cologne, to the way his shoulder brushed hers, to how naturally he fit into her space.

She welcomed the waiter’s return like a lifeline.

They ordered an assortment of appetizers, and when they arrived, Emily was genuinely surprised by how beautiful—and delicious—they looked.

She turned to him, teasing.

“Are you trying to get me fat?”

He smiled. “Not at all. I just want you to enjoy the evening.”

She studied him, searching his face.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender.

“As friends.”

Emily nodded slowly. “Right.”

Neither of them believed it.

Brody chuckled again, clearly enjoying himself—enjoying her. And Emily felt it then, unmistakably: the pull, the tension, the way the air between them seemed to hum with everything unsaid.

Dinner had barely begun.

And already, restraint was becoming the hardest part.

Dinner unfolded easily, almost effortlessly.

At first, their conversation stayed light—safe. Emily told him stories about her friends, about Lola’s unfiltered honesty and Kimberly’s dramatic flair. Brody listened with quiet amusement, laughing at the right moments, occasionally shaking his head as if he could already picture every scene.

“I can’t believe you all survived college together,” he said, smiling.

“We barely did,” Emily replied. “Mostly because Lola never let anything be boring.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said knowingly, and her laugh came freely.

As the wine flowed and the plates continued to arrive, something shifted. The conversation slowed, deepened. Brody spoke about travel—not business trips, but moments that had stayed with him. Early mornings in quiet cities. Dinners that stretched late into the night. He didn’t name luxury or status; instead, he talked about how certain places made him feel grounded, present.

Emily found herself leaning closer without realizing it.

She talked about her childhood, about Sunday mornings and routines she still clung to. About how she liked order but secretly craved spontaneity. Brody listened intently, his gaze steady, his expression open.

“You notice details,” he said softly at one point.

She blinked. “I do?”

He nodded. “People who notice details usually care more than they let on.”

The words settled between them, warm and personal. Emily felt seen—truly seen—in a way that surprised her.

There were small moments, too. His knee brushing hers beneath the table. The way he reached for the same dish she did and paused, smiling as he let her go first. When she spoke, he angled his body toward her completely, as if the rest of the room no longer existed.

At one point, she caught him watching her—not openly, but with quiet appreciation. When she raised a brow, teasing, he didn’t look away.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just… enjoying this.”

Her heart fluttered again.

The laughter returned, softer now, more intimate. Their voices lowered naturally, sharing space rather than filling it. Emily felt relaxed—safe—but also acutely aware of how close he was, how easily the evening had begun to feel like theirs.

When she reached for a golden‑brown jalapeño popper, her fingers brushed his—not an accident, not really, just a slow, deliberate glide of skin against skin. The contact was brief, but the spark it lit raced up her arm and settled low in her stomach. Neither of them pulled away. Their hands lingered in that small, stolen space, warm and breathless.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though nothing in his voice sounded apologetic. It had dropped an octave, roughened with something dark and intent.

“It’s okay,” she said, even though her pulse was thudding so hard she felt it in her throat.

Their eyes caught and held—too long, too knowing—until she finally lifted the popper to her lips. She felt Brody’s gaze follow the movement, slow and unhurried, like he was savoring the anticipation more than the food itself.

He didn’t look away when she took a bite. If anything, he leaned in, his attention narrowing to the soft parting of her lips, the faint catch of her breath as the crisp breading cracked and the warm, silky cream cheese melted over her tongue. A low, involuntary “mmh” slipped from her, vibrating in her throat, and his eyes darkened at the sound.

The spice bloomed, heat curling along her tongue, and she saw the moment he registered it—the way his jaw flexed, the way his body angled fully toward her as if the rest of the restaurant had dissolved into nothing.

She swallowed, slow and deliberate, and when their eyes met again, they both smiled.

As dessert arrived, Emily realized something quietly profound: she wasn’t thinking about titles or rules or what tomorrow might bring. She was simply there—present, engaged, enjoying the man across from her.

Brody felt it too.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t push. He let the intimacy grow the way it wanted to—through conversation, shared glances, and the simple pleasure of being together.

Dinner wasn’t just a meal anymore.

It was a connection taking root, steady and undeniable, wrapped in laughter and soft words—and the promise of something more waiting just beneath the surface.