The Fine Print of Us

Chapter One - Bond Villians and Horror Stories

The restaurant was trying too hard. Dim lighting. Soft jazz. Crystal stemware that probably cost more than her rent. Mara stifled a yawn and resisted the urge to pull out her phone and check emails or her cozy mobile game. At least that made sense. Harvest. Sell. Expand. Minimal emotional trauma. Unlike… this.

Her mother had insisted. “He’s successful, sweet, and serious about settling down.”

Translation: he probably owned a yacht named after his ego, wore loafers without socks, and listened to Mozart because someone once told him it was sophisticated. He was likely allergic to pop music, sarcasm, and women with opinions.

Someone definitely owed her mother a favor.

That’s the only explanation. They needed a warm body for a dinner date and settled for the weird, sarcastic daughter of Clarissa Lennox. Maybe they thought they were getting a younger clone of her polished, high-society mother. Joke’s on them.

Mara had an average job, one that didn’t come with a designer business card or weekly gossip brunches. She hadn’t faked a smile through a wine-soaked book club in her life. She liked cozy games, 80s music, and not being judged for liking both.

Adjusting the strap of her dress, she checked her watch.She wasn’t staying long.

Twenty minutes. Just enough time to document the effort, send proof to the family group chat, and disappear back into the comfort of her couch, oversized hoodie, and a dangerously strong gin and tonic.

She stirred her drink absently. Then the air shifted.

That almost imperceptible hush. The kind that announced someone important or someone dangerous. Mara looked up.

And forgot how to blink. He wasn’t a tax lawyer. He wasn’t even remotely “safe.” Damien Blackthorn stood tall in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, like temptation with a tailored cut. He was sharp edges and quiet confidence. His dark eyes met hers, unreadable and far too knowing.

“Miss Lennox?”

His voice was a problem.

Deep.

Smooth.

Expensive.

Mara blinked once. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

His brow arched. “We’ve met before?”

“No,” she said, eyes narrowing. “But I’ve seen Bond villains with less threatening energy.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost more dangerous than a frown.

He offered his hand. “Damien Blackthorn.”

She stared at it. Then gave in, slipping her fingers into his with a grip that said I’m not impressed, but I’m paying attention.

“Of course that’s your name,” she muttered. “Mara Lennox. Victim of parental matchmaking.”

He slid into the chair across from her, calm and composed like he was settling in for a deposition. “Well. At least we’re both suffering.”

She leaned back, letting her smirk curve slow and sharp. “You’re suffering? I shaved my legs for this.”

His laugh was low and real. And somehow, that made everything worse. Mara took a sip of her drink and wondered just how fast this evening would spiral out of control. Spoiler alert: probably before the appetizer.

“I must confess I had no time to do an intensive background search,” she told him, voice light with just the right amount of sarcasm. “So tonight everything goes. You can tell me anything this evening and I’ll believe it.” She smirked, twirling her straw slowly in her drink. “So, tell me, Damien, why are you here tonight?”

If her bluntness rattled him, he didn’t show it. Of course he didn’t. Men like Damien Blackthorn didn’t do rattled. He leaned back in his chair, unbothered and smooth, fingertips brushing the rim of his glass of water, which was skilfully poured by a passing waiter.

He made it look like this was a negotiation he’d already won.

“I’m here,” he said, “because apparently, I need to appear more… human.”

Mara blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. Or maybe that was the hook, sounding just real enough to make her lean in.

“And are you?” she asked, c*****g her head. “Human?”

“Not according to most tabloids,” he replied, mouth curving slightly. “This week I’m heartless. Last week I was soulless. If you stay long enough, I’m sure next week they’ll declare me legally dead inside.”

She had to press her lips together to avoid laughing.

Damn it.

He wasn’t supposed to be funny.

He was supposed to be boring. Predictable. The kind of man who spoke fluent spreadsheet and scheduled his weekends around tax season. But Damien Blackthorn? He was something else entirely. Maybe it was the drink loosening her defenses. Or maybe the man sitting across from her the real-life Bond villain in a suit. was actually sarcastically hilarious.

“Well, good thing I didn’t Google you,” Mara said, taking a sip of her gin. “I hate spoilers.”

He laughed, low, dark, rich. The kind of laugh that felt stolen. Like he didn’t do it often but didn’t mind it when she was the reason. Something in her chest pulled tight.

Ugh. That was annoying.

She tilted her glass, watching him over the rim. “So, is this your idea of damage control? Woo the world back into loving you with dinner, dim lighting, and—” she made a vague gesture “—tragic jazz?”

He glanced around with an almost amused air. “I didn’t pick the restaurant.”

“Shame,” she said, pretending to sigh. “I was going to compliment your taste in overpriced crystal and existential gloom.”

Their eyes locked. A flicker of heat, sharp and sudden, sparked between them. Mara blamed the gin. Entirely.

“Ivy said you were quick on your feet,” he said.

Mara arched a brow. “Ah. So we’re on a first-name basis with the terrifying redhead.”

“She’s my publicist. Not my conscience.”

“Good,” she said with a dry smile. “Wouldn’t want to assume you had one.”

That pulled a glint of something behind his eyes, amusement? Approval? Hard to tell with a man like him. He leaned in, elbows resting casually on the table, voice dipping to a low murmur that curled like smoke.

“So, what about you, Mara Lennox?” he asked. “What brings you to a blind date with a scandal-ridden lawyer?”

She didn’t flinch. Held his gaze like it was a game she knew how to play.

“Parental blackmail,” she said. “And mild curiosity.”

“Mild?”

“Well,” she said slowly, letting the moment stretch, “you’re a little more complicated than my usual type.”

His lips curved. “And what is your usual type?”

She smiled, saccharine and sharp. “Career-driven men who pretend to be someone they’re not… then play the victim when it all crashes and burns.”

“Ouch.” He didn’t even blink. “Sounds like you’ve got a tragic backstory, Lennox.”

“Don’t we all?”

He studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. “So what is it you do, exactly? Besides verbally dismember unsuspecting men over cocktails.”

She laughed, light and unbothered, though her pulse betrayed her. “I design book covers,” Mara said, resting her elbow against the table as she took another sip of her drink.

Damien blinked, caught off guard for the first time since sitting down. “Seriously?” he asked, head tilting with curiosity. “Do you think I’ve read anything with your cover on it?”

She eyed him over the rim of her glass. Before tonight, she would’ve pegged him as the type who only read autobiographies, heavy on ego, light on plot. But now… there was something in the way he listened, in the flicker of recognition that ghosted through his expression.

She gave a small shrug, her voice easy. “Thrillers. Horror. Dark stuff, mostly. The kind of books that make you question whether locking your doors is enough.”

He didn’t flinch. In fact, his lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Let me guess, no happy endings?”

Mara’s smile turned sly. “Not in those stories.” She leaned in slightly. “They’re the kind of books where everyone’s guilty and nobody makes it out clean.”

Something shifted in his expression. It wasn’t just interest, it was familiarity.

Then he said, “I read one recently. Bestseller. Went viral. Whisper Hollow. Creepy forest. Isolated town. Woman with a kitchen knife and a few unresolved issues.”

Mara’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve read Whisper Hollow?”

He nodded once. “Bought it because the cover stopped me in my tracks.”

She set her drink down, amusement flickering in her bright blue eyes. “I designed that cover.”

For a brief moment, the silence between them wasn’t awkward, it was charged. The air between their table and the rest of the dim restaurant seemed thinner, like they were tucked into their own private chapter.

Damien leaned forward, forearms on the table, gaze never leaving hers. “Then I owe you a thank you. That cover cost me a full night’s sleep.”

Warmth curled at the base of her spine. Her mother had hated that job, called it grotesque, said it would never lead anywhere “respectable.” But it had sold out in pre-orders, the author had signed a movie deal, and apparently… Damien Blackthorn had devoured it like a man who secretly craved darkness.

She tilted her head, her voice dry. “Didn’t have you down as a horror reader.”

“I don’t mind fiction,” he said, gaze smoldering. “Especially the kind that doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not.”

That struck a little too close to home. She masked the jolt with a shrug. “I guess I’m full of surprises.”

He smiled again, slower this time, a little darker. “You have no idea.”

Mara looked away first, watching the candlelight flicker against the crystal. She had expected this date to be another awkward checkbox on her mother’s relationship resume. Instead, she’d ended up across from a man who looked like temptation in a tailored suit and talked like he could read her mind.

She’d meant to escape before dessert. That had been the plan.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Something about Damien Blackthorn, his dark wit, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, was making her forget every escape strategy she’d rehearsed in the cab ride over. He was supposed to be a boring obligation. Instead, he was magnetic in a way that irritated her as much as it intrigued her.

But deep down, beneath the gin and flirtation, she knew exactly how this would end. For Damien, this was just a means to an end. A little damage control. A photo op with a not-too-embarrassing woman to polish his reputation. He’d wrap the night with a perfectly timed smile, maybe even a staged kiss, and disappear back into his slick, high-rise world, never sparing her another thought.

She, on the other hand, would probably find herself weeks from now, drink in hand, wondering what would’ve happened if she'd leaned in a little more. Said something she wasn’t supposed to. Asked him to stay. She hated that about herself. The part that always wanted to believe in the possibility of more, even when all the signs pointed to “don’t be stupid.”

“Penny for your thoughts,” Damien said, watching her with an unreadable look.

Mara blinked, caught in the act. “Just wondering if I should order dessert or bail while I still have plausible deniability.”

His mouth curved. “Are you asking if it’s safer to run or risk it?”

“I’m saying the double chocolate cake might be less dangerous than you,” she replied, keeping her tone light, her posture casual.

He leaned back, eyes still locked on hers. “You don’t strike me as someone who chooses safe.”

“No,” she admitted, stirring the ice in her glass. “But I like knowing when I’m walking into fire.”

His lips curved into a knowing smirk. He didn’t gloat, he didn’t need to. Mara knew he’d registered it: he was a glitch in her plans. A detour she hadn’t expected. And the worst part? She didn’t want to reroute.

They continued their dinner, exchanging sharp glances and banter that danced between flirtation and something dangerously close to real connection. Still, somewhere beneath the surface of her thoughts, she kept counting down, minutes slipping through her fingers like sand. A quiet ache forming with every passing second.

She hated that she wanted more time.

More of him.

More of this charged, impossible night.

He was every red flag she’d been warned about, too charming, too composed, too good at making her forget the reasons she shouldn’t want him. And yet, she wanted nothing more than to step off the edge and see just how hot the fire really burned.

The dark gleam in his eyes said he knew. Of course he did. Men like Damien Blackthorn didn’t just see desire, they hunted it, controlled it, set the terms.

And as the evening wound to its inevitable close, everything unfolded exactly as she’d predicted.

He paid the bill without hesitation. Helped her into her coat like a gentleman from a cute romantic movie. But when his hand brushed the small of her back, he lingered there, possessive in the most subtle, infuriating way. She swore she felt the mark of it, like heat on skin long after a touch.

He leaned in slightly, close enough for her to breathe in the scent of expensive cologne and something more primal beneath it. It was intoxicating, dark, sharp, addictive. Her lips parted, maybe a breath, maybe a plea. She didn’t know. All she knew was that if he kissed her now, she wouldn’t stop him.

But Damien didn’t move.

Instead, he opened the door and stood aside like a man immune to temptation.

“Thank you for tonight,” she managed, her voice a little too steady, her smile a little too tight.

He held her gaze, unreadable. “Likewise, Miss Lennox.”

Miss Lennox. Not Mara.

Formal.

Purposeful.

It stung more than it should have.

And with that, she stepped into the night, heels tapping against the pavement, pretending the chill in the air was the reason for the goosebumps across her skin, not the memory of his hand or the look in his eyes.

She didn’t look back.

But god, she wanted to.