Chapter 19 L' Amour
Ray stares at me, looking lost for a second, like the words I’d just said knocked the air clean out of him.
“It’s—”
A familiar ringing cuts through the moment, sharp and insistent. My breath catches as I freeze.
My phone.
The sound yanks me out of my daze, and my eyes dart to my purse like it might explode. I fumble it open, fingers suddenly clumsy, and there it is on the screen— L’Amour.
My eyes widen. My heart thumps violently against my ribs, each beat louder than the last.
Oh.
Oh no.
I had totally forgotten.
“Shit!” I curse out loud, the word slipping before I can stop it.
I scramble to shove my things into my bag, avoiding Ray’s gaze like my life depends on it. I can feel his confusion, his hurt, pressing in on me from across the table.
I shoot up from my seat so abruptly the chair screeches backward across the floor.
“Where are you going?” Ray asks, standing too. He reaches out and grabs my wrist, his grip firm but not rough. There’s something raw in his eyes now, something unguarded. “What’s wrong?”
“Damien!” I blurt, the name tumbling out in my panic. “His dinner reservation—I’m going to be late.”
The words barely make sense even to me. I tug my hand free before he can say anything else and spin on my heel, already heading for the elevators. Any ounce of calm, of caution, of decorum evaporates completely.
I mash the call button like it personally offended me.
Come on. Come on.
Inside the elevator, I tap the tip of my flats rapidly against the cold metal floor, arms folded tight around myself. My phone buzzes again in my hand, mocking me.
I don’t check it. I can’t. My nerves are wound so tight they might snap.
The doors finally slide open.
I bolt forward without thinking—and slam straight into something solid.
“Oof—!”
I stumble back, my balance gone, and for a split second I’m sure I’m about to hit the floor. But I don’t.
Strong arms wrap around me, firm and steady, anchoring me in place. The world tilts, then stills.
And then it hits me.
The scent.
Warm. Smoky. Whisky and something unmistakably him. It steals the oxygen straight from my lungs.
My eyes snap open.
Emerald green.
Captivating. Intense. Too familiar.
A storm of emotion swirls behind them—amusement, surprise, something darker I can’t quite place.
The hallway lights reflect off his gaze, turning that green into something almost unreal, almost dangerous.
“Careful, tesoro…”
His voice is husky, dipped lower than usual, and it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
My brain short-circuits.
Okay—what the actual fuck was that?
What did he just call me?
I jerk back, breaking the contact, my pulse racing as I steady myself. Maybe I misheard. I had been rushing. Stress does funny things to the ears.
Right?
He tilts his head slightly, lips quirking with unmistakable amusement, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Don’t we have a dinner reservation to get to?” he asks casually.
My stomach flips.
Oh.
I definitely didn’t imagine it.
~
I sit there, fingers folded tightly in my lap, watching the waitress make a spectacle of herself.
She hovers by Damien’s side far longer than necessary, smiling too wide, leaning too close, her voice suddenly lighter, softer—sugary in a way that makes my skin itch.
She sets his plate down with exaggerated care, her long artificial lashes fluttering as though she’s rehearsed this moment in front of a mirror.
“If you need anything else,” she says sweetly, eyes never once flicking in my direction, “don’t hesitate to ask, Mr. Black.”
The voice she’s using isn’t even hers. I can tell. It’s forced, pitched just right, crafted to entice. The way she says his name makes my jaw tighten before I can stop myself.
I shift slightly in my seat, painfully aware of how thoroughly she’s erased me from the table. It’s like I don’t exist at all.
She’s desperate. That’s the only word for it. And as cruel as it sounds, it’s almost pitiful.
Her uniform—or whatever version of it she’s decided to wear—does her no favors in subtlety.
The thin fabric of her button-down dress clings to her body, outlining every curve. The top buttons strain valiantly, her cleavage unapologetically on display as she clasps her hands to her chest, pushing herself forward just enough to ensure Damien can’t miss it.
Other men have already noticed. I can see them from the corner of my eye—lingering stares, appreciative glances, elbows nudging ribs.
I have to look away.
The secondhand embarrassment is unbearable.
But what’s strange—what’s unnerving—is Damien’s reaction.
Or rather, his lack of one.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t glance up. Doesn’t even acknowledge her theatrics. He’s focused entirely on his phone, brows drawn together slightly, jaw set in that unreadable way of his.
It’s… odd.
I mean, objectively, she is beautiful. Her jet-black hair falls in glossy waves down her shoulders, curtain bangs framing her face perfectly.
Her makeup is heavy, yes, but skillfully applied—sharp liner, full lips, flawless skin. She’s eye-catching, the kind of woman who commands attention without trying too hard.
And judging by the room, she’s succeeded.
So why isn’t Damien even looking?
“Thank you,” he says finally, his tone polite but distant. “That will be all.”
He doesn’t lift his gaze as he dismisses her.
I watch her expression falter—just for a split second—before irritation creeps in. She scoffs quietly, spins on her heel, and stalks off with her tray clutched to her side.
Silence settles over the table once more.
It’s thick. Heavy. Almost louder than the noise of the restaurant around us.
I steal a glance at Damien, studying him while I think he’s distracted. The sharp lines of his face, the way his shoulders remain relaxed even when the air feels tense. He looks up then, catching me mid-observation.
Our eyes meet.
My heart stutters.
There’s something about the way he looks at me—direct, unwavering—that makes my pulse quicken against my ribs.
I feel exposed, like he’s seeing straight through whatever flimsy composure I’ve managed to construct.
“You’re not going to order anything?” he asks.
His voice is calm, smooth, but it carries weight. It always does.
“…N-no,” I stammer. “I’m fine.”
I smile awkwardly, dropping my gaze to the table. The intensity of his attention is getting to me more than I’d like to admit.
My fingers curl slightly against my thigh, grounding myself.
“Someone seemed to like you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
The second they leave my mouth, regret crashes over me like a wave.
“You sound interested, tesoro.”
I snap my head up, eyes wide.
Did I just—
Did I say that out loud?
His lips twitch, a smirk threatening to form as he studies my reaction, clearly amused.
“—What? Me?” I rush out, heat flooding my cheeks. “No. I just meant… the waitress seemed interested in you. That’s all, sir.”
I wince internally at the title, but it feels safer than whatever line I was dangerously close to crossing.