7. A Taste of Trouble

I spent the rest of the night turning our conversation over and over in my head. John Blackwell wasn’t looking for a game. He wanted something real. And no matter how loudly my mind screamed at me to keep my distance, my heart had already begun writing a different story.

In the days that followed, I tried to drown myself in work, in anything that might keep me from thinking about John. But it was useless. Every time I sat down to write, the words that spilled onto the page weren’t the ones I wanted. They came out heavy with tension, with unspoken emotions, with desire. As if my subconscious had decided to process everything I refused to face through ink and paper.

And, of course, John wasn’t about to let me find peace. Three days after our dinner, a message appeared on my phone—simple, direct, impossible to ignore: “Dinner tomorrow. Eight. No excuses.”

I smiled in spite of myself. Damn charming bastard.

I answered: “Fine, but I pick the place.” I wasn’t about to let him drag me into another one of his luxury haunts where I’d feel like an extra in a Bond movie. I wanted something real, something simple. A place where I could breathe without feeling like I didn’t belong.

The next evening, I chose a small neighborhood restaurant I knew well. Nothing fancy—just homemade food and the kind of cozy atmosphere that felt like an old friend.

When I arrived, he was already there, waiting at the entrance. His clothes were more casual this time—if you could call that casual—perfectly fitted jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hair a little tousled like he’d run his fingers through it too many times while waiting for me. And that smile. That damned smile that stirred something in me I didn’t know how to quiet.

“This place has charm,” he said, glancing around with genuine curiosity. “Not what I expected, but… I like it.”

“What did you expect?” I crossed my arms, grinning. “Caviar and champagne?”

“Maybe something a little more… polished.” He shrugged, then met my gaze, more serious now. “But honestly? I couldn’t care less where we are. As long as I’m with you.”

I rolled my eyes, but my heart betrayed me, racing at his words. Always so direct. Always knocking me off balance with those little confessions that slipped out like they cost him nothing.

We sat by the window, and though the setting was relaxed, the air between us crackled with something else entirely. Every accidental brush of our hands, every shared glance, felt charged. Electric.

We ordered, and as we waited, he watched me with that look—the one that undid me, that left me breathless.

“What’s going through that head of yours right now?” he asked suddenly, leaning in just enough for his voice to feel intimate.

“Nothing,” I lied, heat creeping up my neck, giving me away.

“Liar.” His voice softened, a playful glint in his eye. “You’re thinking about something. Maybe about our last conversation?”

I bit my lip, torn between denying it and confessing everything. That conversation had haunted me. I’d tried to push it aside, but here it was, sitting between us like a secret waiting to be told.

“I’m thinking about you. About us.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “About how none of this makes sense.”

“Why wouldn’t it make sense?” His surprise at my honesty was clear.

“Because we’re too different, John. You live in a world of luxury and open doors, and I… I don’t even know if I can make rent next month.” My voice wavered, but I let it out anyway.

He looked at me with that same mix of surprise and tenderness, as if he couldn’t understand how I could let something like that matter.

“I don’t care about the money, Catherine,” he said, low and firm. “If that’s what’s scaring you, then you’re seeing this all wrong. What matters to me is you. Not what you have or what you can offer in some material way. I want the woman who challenges me, who makes me feel alive every time we’re together.”

A knot rose in my throat. How could someone like him see something in me I barely saw in myself?

“I don’t know, John. It’s complicated.” I tried to sound more certain than I felt.

“Of course it’s complicated. The things that matter always are.” His hand slid across the table and found mine, fingers weaving together like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m not asking you to fall for me overnight. Just give me a chance to show you this could work.”

I met his gaze, my heart racing so fast I thought he might hear it. There was something in his eyes, in his voice, that made the rest of the world fall away. The doubts, the fear—they didn’t stand a chance when he was this close.

“All right,” I said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll give you a chance.”

His smile was slow, full of quiet triumph, as if he’d just won the most important battle of his life.

“You won’t regret it, Catherine,” he whispered, squeezing my hand gently.

And right then, looking at him, I started to believe he might be right.