5. I Don’t Want to Impress You (But Somehow I Do)

When I got home, the idea of dinner with Javier settled into my mind like a ticking time bomb. I couldn’t focus on anything. I’d open my laptop, write a single sentence, then delete five. I tried reading, but every word reminded me of his voice, his smile, the feel of his hand brushing mine.

By seven-thirty, I was standing in front of my closet, staring at my clothes like I was about to make the most important decision of my life. What the hell do you wear to dinner with Javier Aranda? Nothing in there said I’m not interested, but I also don’t want you to think I’m a mess.

I tried on three different outfits, cursing under my breath. Why did it even matter what I wore? He’d show up in one of his custom-made suits, smelling of success and power, while I debated whether I looked too casual or like I was trying too hard.

In the end, I chose something simple: a fitted black dress that wasn’t too revealing, and ankle boots. I left my hair down—because I knew he preferred it that way, though I’d never admit it. When I was done, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and almost laughed. It’s just dinner, Silvia. Not a job interview or a meeting with the president.

“Who are you trying to impress, Silvia?” I muttered to my reflection.

But I already knew the answer. And I hated admitting it.

At exactly eight, just as I was pacing nervously around my living room, the doorbell rang. I took a deep breath before opening the door, ready for anything. Or so I thought.

Javier was leaning against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored jacket. I knew it—custom suit. But it wasn’t the usual boring kind. It was a dark, almost-black navy, and his white shirt, open at the collar, gave him an air of effortless sophistication. He looked like he’d stepped out of a movie.

“Well, you look…” he began, smiling, but I cut him off.

“Don’t say it.” I closed the door behind me, feeling my heart race. “I don’t want your charming billionaire compliments tonight, Aranda.”

He chuckled softly and offered me his arm.

“As you wish. I’ll just say you look more than perfect.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but I couldn’t stop a small smile from tugging at my lips. We walked to his car—a sleek black sports car that looked like it had just come out of a luxury magazine. Of course, I thought. What else?

During the drive, I tried not to look at him too much, but he seemed so at ease. One hand rested casually on the steering wheel, and every now and then he glanced at me, as if enjoying my discomfort.

Each time he did, I felt that slow burn rising up my neck. I hated it.

I hated that he knew me so well.

We arrived at a restaurant in an upscale part of town—the kind of place I’d never go to on my own. Javier got out first, and before I could open my door, he was already there, holding it for me.

“Always such a gentleman?” I asked, sarcasm lacing my voice as I took his hand.

“Only with the women who constantly challenge me.” His reply was so natural, so charming, I had to swallow the lump in my throat.

Inside, we were treated like royalty. The hostess led us straight to a private table on the terrace, with a breathtaking view of the city. It was all too much. But I couldn’t help feeling a little dazzled.

We sat, and as we browsed the menu, Javier shot me one of those looks that felt like he could see straight through me.

“I don’t get why you fight this so hard, Silvia,” he said without lifting his gaze from the menu. “It’s obvious you feel the same way I do.”

“What are you talking about?” I tried to sound indifferent.

“This. Us.” He set the menu aside and looked right into my eyes. “There’s something here, and you can’t deny it.”

I hesitated for a second, unsure of what to say. Of course there was something. I felt it in every glance, every word. But admitting it would be surrendering, and I wasn’t ready for that.

“I don’t know what makes you think you know what I feel.” I took a sip of water, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.

“Because I see it in your eyes.” He leaned in a little, elbows on the table. “You don’t have to say it. I see it every time you look at me like you want to run but can’t move.”

And he wasn’t wrong. Because as much as I hated to admit it, every time he got close, I froze.

Not out of fear. Out of everything but fear.

I opened my mouth to say something, to defend myself, but nothing came out. Damn him. He always managed to disarm me, as if he could see right past the walls I fought so hard to keep up.

“I’m not running from anything,” I said, crossing my arms like that could somehow shield me.

“Oh, you are.” His smile wasn’t mocking this time—it was soft, almost understanding. “And that’s okay. You can run all you want. But sooner or later, you’ll have to face it.”

“Face what?” I asked, frustrated now.

“Yourself.” He said it in a whisper, and for the first time that night, his voice wasn’t full of confidence. It was filled with something else. Something that made me shiver.

And I understood. It wasn’t just about him. It was about me. About my fear of letting someone see me, really see me. About the terror of letting go and getting swept up in something bigger than myself. And that terrified me.

But it also… drew me in.

We sat in silence for a few minutes while the servers brought our food. The tension lingered in the air, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like we were both waiting for the right moment to say something real.

I took a deep breath and looked at him.

“Maybe… maybe you’re right.”

His smile was slow, gentle, like he’d been waiting for that moment.

“I knew you’d admit it sooner or later.”

I rolled my eyes, but this time I couldn’t stop the laugh.

“Just don’t get your hopes up.”

But even as I said it, I knew those hopes were already taking shape on their own.