CHRISTIANNA

A Table for Two

Chapter Seven: A Table for Two

Vincent’s car pulled up just as the city lights were softening into evening. It was not the sort of flashy, roaring machine that announced itself with arrogance, but a sleek, understated black sedan with polished curves that caught the glow of the streetlamps in gentle reflection. The windows were tinted enough to suggest privacy but not so dark that they looked severe, and when Samantha stepped out of her modest apartment, her eyes immediately caught the sheen of its surface. He leaned casually against the driver’s side door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the keys as though time had always been his to command.

She hesitated at the gate, tugging lightly at the hem of her dress. It was a simple dress, navy blue with thin straps that revealed her shoulders in a way that felt both vulnerable and confident. Emma had insisted she wear it, had even dropped by with a pair of silver earrings and a lipstick shade called Crimson Promise. Samantha had laughed at the name, but now, as Vincent’s gaze lingered, she wondered if there was truth hidden in it.

“You look…” he started, and for once his words failed him. “—like trouble I’d happily walk into.”

Her lips curved slightly, but she shook her head. “And you look overdressed.”

He laughed, glancing down at his suit. It was not the stiff corporate kind, but a tailored charcoal blazer over a crisp white shirt, open at the collar, paired with slim black trousers and polished brown shoes. It was elegance wrapped in ease, the kind of dressing that spoke of a man who understood impressions but cared more about comfort once he’d made them.

“Shall we?” he asked, opening the passenger door.

She slid into the car, and for a moment the soft leather against her back and the faint cologne in the air made her feel like she’d stepped into another life.

The restaurant sat at the edge of the city, a glass-fronted building with soft amber lights glowing from within. Its sign, scripted in cursive gold, read Elysian, and the valet who approached did so with the quiet deference reserved for regulars. Vincent slipped him the keys, and they entered together.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm and low-lit, with gentle jazz notes threading through the air and waiters moving like shadows with trays that shimmered under the lamps. The tables were set far apart enough for privacy, each adorned with a single candle in a glass holder and a small vase of white lilies. The scent of bread—freshly baked, with a hint of rosemary—drifted lazily from a corner.

Samantha felt her chest tighten slightly. It was not the kind of place she would have chosen. It was more, too much, and yet Vincent walked as though he belonged here, as though he could walk anywhere and make the walls bend to welcome him.

He pulled out her chair before she could protest, and she sat, smoothing her dress carefully.

“Do you like it?” he asked once they had settled.

“It feels… unreal,” she admitted softly.

“That’s the point. To remind us that reality is wide. Bigger than we think.”

The waiter arrived, presenting menus, but Vincent didn’t touch his. “Do you trust me?” he asked, eyes glinting across the table.

She hesitated, then nodded.

He ordered for both of them—roasted sea bass with lemon butter, a side of grilled vegetables, and a bottle of white wine. When the waiter left, she raised an eyebrow.

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Not really,” he replied. “But I know good food, and I know you’ll like it. Childhood taught me to pay attention to small joys.”

That drew her in. “Tell me.”

He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping the stem of his empty glass. “My father was never around much. Business, travel, excuses. But my mother… she had this thing about meals. No matter what the day had stolen, dinner had to give something back. She’d cook, we’d eat, and for those few minutes, everything felt safe. I guess I learned early that food is more than food—it’s memory.”

Samantha rested her chin lightly on her hand, listening. “And what’s your earliest memory of it?”

He smiled faintly. “Fried plantain. Burnt at the edges. Sweet and bitter at the same time. I still chase that taste.”

She laughed, a sound that surprised even herself. “Mine was pancakes. Too thin, always folding in the middle. But Richard and I ate them like they were treasure.”

At the mention of her brother, Vincent’s eyes softened. “He’s lucky. You’ve been more than a sister to him.”

She lowered her gaze. “Sometimes I feel like I failed him. We had days… months even… where I couldn’t give him more than words.”

Vincent leaned forward. “Words can feed more than bodies, Samantha. They can feed hope. And you’ve given him that.”

Her throat tightened, and she was grateful when the food arrived, giving her a moment to collect herself. The plates were set with quiet ceremony, the sea bass gleaming under the soft light, its skin crisp and golden, the butter sauce catching the reflection of the candle flame.

They ate slowly. Talk meandered from childhood meals to books they had loved, to dreams neither had spoken aloud in a long time. Vincent confessed he had once wanted to be a psychologist, but business had swept him elsewhere. She admitted she sometimes dreamt of running a little café, something warm and simple, where people felt seen.

And somewhere between the last bite and the first sip of wine, their conversation shifted, the air growing softer, heavier, charged.

“You know,” Vincent said, his voice lower, “I don’t do this often.”

“What?”

“Sit across from someone and feel like I don’t need to perform.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“I mean it,” he added, holding her gaze. “You make silence… enough.”

Samantha looked away, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

The ride home was quiet but not empty. Streetlights passed in intervals, throwing soft shadows across her face. She looked out the window most of the way, but Vincent stole glances, memorizing.

When he pulled up to her apartment, Richard was waiting at the door, arms crossed.

“You kept her long enough,” he teased, though there was a boyish pout beneath his words.

Vincent raised a hand in mock surrender. “Guilty.”

Richard leaned toward the car. “Next time, I’m timing you. And you owe me lunch.”

Vincent chuckled. “I’ll take you both.”

Richard smirked, satisfied, and disappeared inside.

Samantha unbuckled her seatbelt, hand pausing on the door handle.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For making today feel like it belonged to me.”

Vincent studied her for a moment, then smiled—a slow, deliberate smile. “Then let me ruin it by saying I don’t want it to be the last.”

She laughed softly. “That’s not ruin.”

When she stepped out, he didn’t touch her, but the air between them held everything words couldn’t.

The weeks that followed were brighter. Vincent kept his word, introducing her to a friend who owned a small events firm. Samantha started part-time, then full-time, managing clients, organizing details with the quiet efficiency she had always lived by. The pay was good, the hours kinder. Within months, she had moved Richard and herself into a modest but warm apartment with bigger windows and a kitchen she could finally call her own.

Anne noticed. Rebecca noticed. Even Marcus noticed. But none said much.

And Vincent?

He simply showed up when he could, sometimes with books, sometimes with flowers, sometimes with nothing but his presence.

And Samantha, for the first time in years, began to believe that her life was not just survival.

It was beginning to look like love.