Chapter 8 The Italian Dinner
893 Words
The Italian restaurant was tucked away on a quiet downtown street, with warm string lights and the smell of fresh basil drifting through the air. Ethan held the door open for me, his hand brushing against my lower back as I stepped inside—a small, casual touch that sent a shiver down my spine.
The hostess recognized him immediately, her eyes widening as she led us to a private booth in the back. “Mr. Hale, your usual table, right this way.”
We slid into the booth, the soft glow of a candle casting warm light over Ethan’s face. He picked up the menu, but his eyes kept drifting to me, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Have you ever been here before?”
I shook my head, scanning the menu. “No. I’ve walked past it a million times, but I could never afford it.”
Ethan’s expression softened. “Well, get whatever you want. Tonight’s on me.” He paused, leaning forward slightly. “And for the record, you deserve to be here. You deserve all of this.”
I felt my cheeks heat up, and I looked down at the menu to hide my smile. It was a small comment, but it meant more than I wanted to admit. For three years, Jake had made me feel like I was never enough—too poor, too ordinary, not worth his time. But Ethan… he made me feel like I belonged. Like I was someone worth noticing.
The waiter arrived, and Ethan ordered for both of us—spaghetti carbonara for him, mushroom risotto for me, and a bottle of red wine. When the waiter left, he leaned back in his seat, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Not the flower shop girl, not Mrs. Hale. Just Lila.”
I hesitated for a second. No one had ever asked me that before. Jake had only cared about what I could do for him—pay his rent, support his dreams. Mia had only cared about talking about herself. But Ethan… he wanted to know me.
“I grew up in a small town outside Seattle,” I said slowly. “My mom died when I was sixteen, and my dad left shortly after. I moved here to go to college, but I had to drop out to work. I’ve been working two jobs ever since—flower shop during the day, barista at night—just to pay the rent.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “You never asked for help?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t want to. I wanted to do it on my own. I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.”
He reached across the table, his hand covering mine. His skin was warm, his touch gentle. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore. Not with me.”
His words hung in the air between us, soft and sincere. I stared at our hands, my heart racing. This wasn’t part of the deal. We weren’t supposed to have moments like this—moments that felt real, that made me forget it was all an act.
The food arrived, and we ate in comfortable silence, occasionally talking about small things—the weather, the restaurant, the music playing in the background. But every time our eyes met, I felt that same electric spark, that same pull between us.
After dinner, Ethan insisted on walking me back to the car. The night air was cool, and he draped his suit jacket over my shoulders, the fabric smelling like his rich, woody cologne.
“Thank you for tonight,” I said, my voice quiet. “I had a really good time.”
Ethan stopped walking, turning to face me. He leaned in, his face inches from mine. His blue eyes were dark, intense, as he stared down at me. “I did too, Lila. More than I should have.”
Before I could process his words, his hand brushed against my cheek, his thumb caressing my skin. My breath caught in my throat, and I leaned into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut.
For a split second, I thought he was going to kiss me.
But then his phone rang, breaking the moment. He pulled away, answering it with a sigh. “Hale here. What? I’ll be right there.”
He hung up, his expression turning serious. “I have to go. Emergency at the office.”
I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment. “It’s okay. Go.”
He pulled me into a quick hug, his arms wrapping around me tightly. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
He kissed the top of my head, then turned and walked away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, his jacket still around my shoulders. I touched my cheek, where his thumb had been, my heart racing.
That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, the way he made me feel. This fake marriage was supposed to be just a deal. But somewhere along the way, I’d started to fall for him.
And I had no idea what to do about it.
- Writer
