Chapter 9 9
POV Katherine
The car was quiet inside, but the engine purred softly every time Elliot pressed the accelerator.
I glanced at him sideways.
His hands caught my attention first. Large, strong, the knuckles slightly pronounced, veins visible as he gripped the wheel with intent. It was absurd—I knew that—but I couldn’t help following with my eyes the way they tensed when he turned, how they relaxed when he downshifted. There was something in those movements that was… hypnotic.
I suppose because his hands were… attractive.
My eyes drifted up to his profile.
He had a well-defined jaw, something I hadn’t really noticed before. Sharp cheekbones, long lashes—surprisingly long—and striking. He was, without a doubt, an attractive young man. And not in that superficial, noisy way teenage boys often seem attractive. He had something else. Something refined. Almost elegant.
Why the hell was I noticing that?
Maybe because there was nothing else to do, and the silence felt comfortable.
For a moment, I imagined he must be quite popular with girls his age—smiling, slender, phone always in hand, lips ready for selfies. Next to him, I felt… unnecessarily self-conscious.
When we hit the highway, I noticed the speedometer. We were going a hundred and twenty.
“Aren’t we going a bit fast?” I asked, keeping my tone even. I didn’t want to sound afraid. “With this car, you probably don’t notice the speed, but it’s a little high.”
He didn’t reply. His eyes stayed on the road, his fingers steady on the wheel. Gradually, though, the needle began to fall. Eighty. Seventy. The ride settled back into something calmer, easier to breathe in.
I looked out the window, quietly grateful that at least he listened.
Once in the city, he turned down a series of narrower streets, passing low buildings with metal shutters and cafés with faded awnings. I didn’t recognize the neighborhood. But there was something cozy about it, as if we were about to step into a secret.
Finally, he parked in front of a small restaurant, almost hidden between a flower shop and an antique store. Nothing flashy—just a sign in cursive letters that read Trattoria di Luca.
“Is this it?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Not that I was being picky, but I’d imagined he’d pick somewhere flashier.
He got out, quickly circled the car, and opened the door for me. The gesture was so natural I didn’t know whether to thank him or just accept it.
“This is it,” he confirmed. “I know you’ll like it.”
We stepped inside.
The place was warm, lit by ceiling lamps with hand-painted glass shades. The tables were small, close together, covered in checkered cloths and linen napkins. A homely atmosphere. Nothing sophisticated. But it smelled of freshly baked bread and homemade sauce—
One of those places you just know will have good food.
They led us to a corner table, barely separated from the next. I sat carefully, suddenly aware of how close we were. When I moved the chair, I brushed against Elliot’s arm, and when I apologized, he didn’t just smile—he turned slightly toward me.
He didn’t move away. He leaned in a little closer.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing.
“It’s fine,” he said softly, almost a whisper, as if he didn’t want us to be overheard.
A young waitress, maybe not much older than him, came over with an awkward smile. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair pulled into a high ponytail. She smiled at Elliot with barely concealed sweetness.
It was obvious he’d caught her eye—that she liked him the moment she saw us walk in. I’d even bet she was nervous serving him. I couldn’t blame her. The boy had his charm.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“An Aperol Spritz for me,” he said with unsettling confidence. “And for you?”
“Just water, thanks.”
We looked over the menu.
“If I may suggest,” he said, leaning in slightly—I caught the faint scent of his cologne, soft but present—“they make a stuffed pasta with truffles here that’s incredible. It’s not heavy, but very flavorful. And… different. Perfect for a special occasion.”
“Is this a special occasion?” I asked, feigning an ironic smile.
“It’s our first outing. I’d call that special.”
“Then I’ll take the recommendation. Thank you.”
“Then… pasta with truffles. And for me, penne all’arrabbiata,” he told the waitress when she returned.
“You speak Italian?”
“Four languages, including that one.”
It didn’t surprise me; he seemed like a capable young man.
The chairs were narrow, and there wasn’t much space between us. His arm was only a few inches from mine. Every movement became a potential accidental touch. I shifted slightly, but my elbow brushed him again. This time, he turned his face—our cheeks nearly touched.
“You’re going to think I’m doing it on purpose,” I murmured, feeling a warmth creep up my neck.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he replied. His olive eyes held a playful glint—something I shouldn’t have noticed.
The food arrived, but the waitress mixed up the plates—his in front of me, mine in front of him.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said quickly. “My mistake.”
Elliot didn’t let her finish. Gently, he switched the plates himself. His fingers brushed against mine as he did it. And he didn’t pull back right away. He lingered—just a second too long.
“Would you like to try?” he offered, cutting a bite from his dish and holding it out to me.
“That’s not necessary…”
“Just a little,” he said, not withdrawing the fork. I parted my lips slightly, and he placed the bite carefully. The spicy flavor caught me off guard—but not as much as the fact that he’d fed me. Casually. As if it meant nothing.
I blushed. I couldn’t help it. I looked down at my plate, trying to focus.
“How is it?” he asked with a discreet smile.
“Intense,” I said, not daring to meet his eyes fully. “But good.”
We ate in silence for a while. I felt his gaze on me more than once, though I didn’t look up. When we finished, he asked for the check. The waitress returned with the bill and, clumsily, left something else.
A phone number. I saw it.
He picked it up without a word, looked at it—then, without hesitation, crumpled it and tossed it into the nearest trash can.
“The girl was pretty,” I said, curious about how easily he’d dismissed the gesture. Maybe he had a girlfriend. I assumed he did.
“She’s not my type.”
“And what is your type, Elliot?”
His lips didn’t move. He simply held my gaze a second longer than necessary. Then he stood, calm, offered his hand to help me up, and said:
“You’ll find out, Mrs. Ellis.”