Page 13 of Only Ever Mine

But that was exactly the problem. He wasn’t just anyone—he was Christian Valen. Billionaire. Enigmatic.

The kind of man women threw themselves at, the kind who could have any woman he wanted.

And yet, for some reason, he was here, taking me out on a date.

I expected him to take me somewhere extravagant—a five-star restaurant, maybe a VIP table at some exclusive lounge.

And honestly, the idea of sitting in some overpriced dining room, surrounded by people who were wealthier and far more polished than me, made my nerves even worse.

But when I met him outside Amélie, dressed in his signature tailored suit, looking as devastating as ever, he had a different plan in mind.

“I thought we’d do something a little more private,” he said, opening the passenger door of his sleek black car.

Private.

The word sent a jolt through me.

I swallowed, slipping into the car, trying to convince myself that private didn’t mean what my overactive imagination wanted it to mean.

But when we pulled up to a stunning high-rise, my heart practically leaped into my throat.

I turned to him, eyes wide. “This is your place, isn’t it?”

A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. “I figured you’d appreciate a quiet meal.”

I knew I should have played it cool, but I couldn't help but blurt out, “You invited me to your penthouse for our first date?”

His gaze darkened with amusement as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“Would you rather I take you somewhere crowded? Maybe a noisy restaurant where people stare at us and interrupt every five seconds?”

Damn him. That was exactly what I didn’t want.

Still, this was dangerous. Being alone with Christian Valen in his penthouse? In his space, where it was just the two of us?

I should have said no.

I should have told him that I preferred something more neutral, something that didn’t have a built-in temptation factor.

Instead, I said, “You are impossible, you know that?”

He grinned. “I’ve been told.”

When we stepped into his penthouse, I took in the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the city skyline, the sleek yet welcoming design of his space, the faint scent of something mouthwatering in the air.

“You cooked?” I asked, blinking at the beautifully set dining table near the window.

Christian chuckled. “Not exactly. But I do know a few excellent chefs.”

Of course he did. I should’ve guessed.

The food was plated perfectly—pan-seared scallops, a bottle of red wine already uncorked, the atmosphere intimate but not overwhelming.

It should have felt intimidating. It almost did.

But then Christian pulled out my chair, an old-fashioned kind of gentlemanly move that should have made me roll my eyes.

Instead, it sent a strange warmth curling through my stomach.

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