Mirabel’s POV
The Italian restaurant Marcus chose was perfect.
The white tablecloths glowed under the lights. Soft music was playing. The smell of bread and garlic filled the room. It felt nice, cozy, and a bit romantic.
Marcus pulled out my chair for me and his hand brushed my shoulder. The touch made me feel happy and warm.
This“ place is beautiful,” I said, looking around at the walls and the lights.
“Wait until you try the food.” He smiled, settling into his chair across from me. “Best carbonara in the city. Trust me.”
“That’s a bold claim.”
“I stand by it.”
The evening went by. We talked about everything and nothing. He told me stories about difficult clients at the spa that had me laughing so hard I nearly snorted wine through my nose. I shared horror stories from the ER that
