Chapter Two: One Dinner
1814 Words
“The buildings were already there,” Torren said. “That was part of the attraction.”
Sylvie glanced at the muffin.
“A dangerous opening to a property story.”
“Yes. Several roofs have since explained that to me.”
She smiled.
He told her about Brackenmere Reach. The old timber township. Buildings empty longer than anyone had intended. A school they were bringing back into use and workshop spaces they hoped would give people reasons to stay.
Not a grand speech.
He mentioned a stubborn door, an inconvenient delivery route, and someone called June who apparently regarded his proposed storage arrangements as a personal insult.
“What was wrong with them?”
“Insufficient shelves.”
“Then she sounds reasonable.”
“You haven’t seen how many shelves she wants.”
“Have you seen how much she needs to store?”
Torren considered her.
“You’d get along.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“Possibly for me.”
Sylvie broke off another piece of muffin.
“And you run the company as well?”
“With help.”
“An encouraging phrase.”
“My beta would prefer it in larger print.”
Something in his expression changed when he spoke about the pack.
Less guarded.
Not softer exactly. More familiar.
Sylvie recognised the look. Liora wore it when discussing their business, usually just before complaining about an invoice.
People could care about something and still find it exhausting.
She trusted that more than a polished declaration of purpose.
A shout rose beyond the café.
They both looked towards it.
Nothing serious. Two men greeting each other across an aisle with the volume of people separated by a mountain range rather than six metres.
Torren’s gaze returned to her.
“What are you attending today?”
“The eleven o’clock session on authentication. Then a workshop after lunch.”
“Would you like to meet for dinner?”
Direct.
Calm.
No elaborate excuse.
Sylvie liked that.
Which was increasingly the problem.
“Is this a date?”
“Yes.”
“Not a pack interview?”
“No.”
“Will there be ceremonial robes?”
“I wasn’t planning on any.”
“Good. I left mine in my other tote bag.”
He smiled.
“Dinner, Sylvie. Somewhere public. Somewhere you choose.”
Her wolf responded with immediate approval.
Sylvie ignored the enthusiastic contribution.
She glanced towards the main floor. Liora would ask sensible questions. Sylvie would probably ask them herself, given ten minutes and a little distance from his face.
But she was twenty-eight, not helpless.
She could feel something extraordinary without signing over her ability to make ordinary decisions.
She could choose dinner.
“One date.”
His expression warmed.
“One date.”
“And you don’t get to rent out the restaurant.”
He paused.
Sylvie pointed at him.
“That pause was incriminating.”
“I was reviewing the conditions.”
“No private chefs either.”
“Anything else?”
“If you turn up in a helicopter, I’m going home.”
“I’ll walk.”
“Excellent. Very grounded of you.”
They exchanged numbers.
His fingers brushed hers when she handed back his phone.
Warmth shot up her arm.
Sylvie’s breath caught.
Not painful. Not unpleasant.
Far too much information from two fingers and an otherwise innocent telephone.
Her wolf pressed eagerly towards the sensation.
Sylvie kept her hand where she had chosen to put it.
Torren felt it too. She saw the tightening of his jaw, the way his hand went still before he withdrew it.
He did not use the moment to touch her again.
For some reason, that made it harder to stop looking at him.
Then her phone lit.
Torren: For dinner arrangements. And complaints about the muffin.
She smiled.
“I’ll require a separate complaints department.”
“You’ll find me very responsive.”
Before she could produce an answer that would embarrass her, Liora appeared.
“There you are.”
“That sounds suspiciously like you didn’t know exactly where I was.”
“I allowed you the illusion of privacy.”
Liora examined the cups, the muffin wrapper, and Torren’s expression.
Then she offered her hand.
“Liora Fenwick. Now that I’m not fleeing a fictional scheduling crisis, we can do that properly.”
Torren stood.
“Torren Vey.”
“Yes. I’ve been doing some light reading.”
“So I gathered.”
“Lovely township project.”
“Thank you.”
“Terrible headshot on your website.”
“Lio.”
“What? It looks like someone told him a server had died just before they took it.”
Torren considered.
“That might actually be what happened.”
Liora laughed.
“The eleven o’clock session starts in ten minutes. I saved us seats.”
Sylvie stood and secured her laptop in her bag.
Torren handed over the tote she had forgotten beside his chair.
Their hands did not touch.
She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“I’ll send you somewhere for dinner.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Liora waited until they were several steps away.
“Well?”
Sylvie kept her eyes ahead.
“He’s funny.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“He listens.”
“Also not the question.”
“He bought a decent muffin.”
“Sylvie.”
She stopped beside a display of miniature cooling fans.
The blades spun industriously behind clear plastic.
She wished her thoughts were half as organised.
“I think,” she said quietly, “he might be my mate.”
Liora’s teasing disappeared.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
Sylvie considered.
Her wolf was happy.
Her sensible mind had opened approximately forty tabs, several playing alarm sounds.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then you don’t have to know yet.”
Something inside her loosened.
“He said that too.”
“Good.”
They began walking.
“And we’re having dinner.”
“Also good.”
“One dinner.”
“Of course.”
“In public.”
“Sensible.”
“No helicopters.”
Liora slowed.
“Why did you need to specify that?”
Sylvie opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“Preventative maintenance.”
Liora shook her head.
Torren remained beside the table until Sylvie disappeared around the corner.
His wolf objected.
Not loudly.
A low, unhappy awareness of distance. An instinctive desire to follow the scent now mingled with coffee and the crowded warmth of the hall.
He stayed where he was.
She was going to a session.
Not leaving his life.
She had barely entered it.
His phone vibrated again.
Eli.
Torren answered.
“You hung up on me.”
“Yes.”
“During what I strongly suspect was a life-changing conversation.”
“Your conversation wasn’t life-changing.”
“Not mine, you absolute fence post. Yours.”
Torren looked towards the aisle.
“She’s my mate.”
Silence.
Then Eli exhaled.
“Well.”
“Yes.”
“Does she know?”
“She feels it.”
“And?”
“We’re having dinner.”
Another pause.
“Dinner.”
“That is generally how people get to know each other.”
“Sorry. I expected something dramatic. You’ve surprised me with competent social behaviour.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Torren collected the empty cups.
His wolf remained attentive to the aisle.
He understood the impulse.
That did not make it an instruction.
Sylvie had laughed at him. Challenged him. Looked briefly uneasy when she understood his title.
Then chosen to stay.
He wanted the next choice to be hers too.
“She didn’t believe I was an alpha.”
Eli made a strangled sound.
Then began laughing.
Torren waited.
Longer than he would have preferred.
“Oh, I like her.”
“You haven’t met her.”
“I have excellent instincts.”
“She knows now.”
“And she’s still having dinner with you?”
“Yes.”
“Even after the company headshot?”
“Apparently.”
“Remarkable woman.”
Torren dropped the cups into the recycling bin.
“She is.”
Eli’s voice softened.
“Then take your time.”
Torren looked at the message thread.
One name.
One dinner.
No promise beyond that.
For once, he wanted something he could not build, buy, or secure through determination.
“I intend to.”
“Good. Now, while you’re still capable of hearing words unrelated to her, June needs an answer about Friday’s delivery.”
Torren straightened.
“The access arrangements?”
“Confirmed. The question is where the materials go afterwards.”
“The temporary store.”
“The temporary store currently contains chairs.”
“Move the chairs.”
“Into?”
He closed his eyes.
Eli waited.
“The meeting room.”
“Which is booked.”
Torren looked towards the ceiling.
Somewhere above him, a banner promised effortless integration.
He felt personally misled.
“Ask June what she recommends.”
“She recommends shelving.”
“Of course she does.”
“I’ll tell her you’ve reached an informed decision.”
Torren laughed.
The pack had not vanished because he had found his mate.
Neither had its chairs.
He was unexpectedly grateful for both facts.
Sylvie settled into the seat Liora had saved.
At the front, a presenter tested a microphone with unnecessary suspicion.
Sylvie opened her laptop.
Beside her, Liora placed a notebook on the table.
“Do you want to talk after this?”
“Yes.”
“About him, the bond, or the restaurant?”
“All three.”
“In that order?”
“The restaurant might be easier.”
“Then we’ll start there.”
Sylvie glanced at her.
No announcement that fate had solved anything.
No suggestion that declining dinner would offend the universe.
Just her friend, prepared to help her think.
Her wolf had finally settled.
Still alert beneath her skin, but no longer behaving as though the café contained the only interesting person in the building.
Mostly.
Sylvie took a breath and opened a fresh document.
Her phone vibrated.
Torren: One question before dinner.
She frowned.
Sylvie: Depends on the question.
His answer arrived.
Torren: What is your position on chips being stolen from your plate?
She smiled before she could stop herself.
Sylvie: Hostile. But negotiable.
Torren: I’ll order extra.
Liora glanced over.
“Oh, you’re in trouble.”
Sylvie turned the phone facedown.
At the front, the presenter welcomed them to the authentication session.
She tried to concentrate.
She really did.
She managed the first slide.
Most of the second.
Then one deeply inconvenient thought slipped past every defence she had.
She was looking forward to dinner.
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