Page 39 of Dreams and Desires

She nods again, then turns on her heel and walks away, her steps a little quicker now, like she can’t wait to put some distance between us. I watch her go, feeling both excited and proud. Tonight, I’ll finally get a chance to break through that tough exterior of hers and see what lies beneath all that armor she’s built around herself.

The hours crawl by until it’s finally eight o’clock. I’m waiting just outside the staff entrance, leaning casually against the wall, my eyes flicking to the kitchen door every few seconds. The place is still busy—staff moving in and out, guests chatting as they pass through. The lobby has that low hum of activity, but my mind is focused on one thing.

Then, the kitchen doors slide open, and there she is. Juniper steps out, wearing the same outfit she had on this morning, and even in the middle of all this chaos, she stands out. Her hair is a bit tousled, probably from the day’s work, and she’s not wearing any makeup—just her natural beauty shining through. There’s something refreshing about it—no pretense, no facade. She looks a little nervous, her eyes darting around as she approaches me, and it only makes her more endearing.

We head to the hotel’s restaurant, an upscale spot with dim lighting and a cozy atmosphere that’s perfect for an intimate dinner. The place is elegantly designed, with soft music playing in the background—the kind that you feel more than hear. As we walk in, I can see she’s uneasy, her movements a little stiff, and her eyes taking in everything like she’s preparing for some kind of ambush. I find it oddly endearing the way she’s out of her element, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

“Relax, Juniper. It’s just dinner,” I say, pulling out her chair for her. She hesitates for a moment, then sits down, still looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“I’m not very good at this,” she admits, her voice low, almost a whisper, as she fidgets with the napkin in her lap.

“Good at what?” I ask, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

“Dating,” she says, her cheeks flushing slightly as she avoids my gaze. It’s a small confession, but it tells me more than she probably intended.

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued by her honesty. “Why do you say that?”

She sighs, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “I’ve never really been on a proper date before,” she confesses, and I can tell it’s not something she enjoys admitting. There’s a vulnerability in her words, a hint of insecurity that she’s trying hard to hide.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I reply, keeping my tone light, not wanting to make her feel more uncomfortable than she already does. “Let’s just enjoy the evening.”

The conversation starts off awkwardly, with her hesitating over her words, her fingers playing with the silverware as she tries to find something to say. I try to keep things smooth, throwing in a few jokes, but it’s clear that she’s not used to this kind of situation. She’s tense, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But as the night progresses, something shifts. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s just that we’re both starting to relax, but we fall into an easy rhythm. Our banter becomes more natural and playful, with a few flirtatious comments thrown in here and there. There’s a spark between us—something electric that neither of us can ignore. It’s like we’re both seeing how far we can push before the other pulls back.

The food is incredible—rich, complex flavors that melt in your mouth; each dish is a work of art. She’s more relaxed now, smiling more, even laughing at some of my jokes, though she tries to hide it. At one point, she drops her fork, her hands trembling slightly. I pick it up and hand it back to her, our fingers brushing for a brief moment, and I feel a jolt of electricity at the contact.

“Here,” I say, giving her a reassuring smile. “No need to be so nervous. As I told you before, I don’t bite.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles, taking a sip of her wine, her cheeks flushed, and not just from the alcohol.

After dinner, we walk through the hotel lobby. The soft lights reflect off the marble floors, giving everything a warm glow. She stumbles slightly on the carpet near the elevators, and I catch her arm to steady her. The warmth of her body against mine sends a jolt through me, and for a moment, we just stand there, looking at each other, feeling the attraction.

“You alright?” I ask, my voice softer than usual and my eyes searching hers for any sign of discomfort.

"Yeah, I just had a bit too much to drink,” she says with a nervous laugh, her cheeks pink from more than just the wine.

“Let’s get you somewhere comfortable. My suite?” I suggest, my tone light, but there’s a seriousness in my eyes that she can’t ignore. I’m not just offering her a place to rest—I’m offering her a chance to trust me, to take a step closer to something neither of us fully understands yet.

She hesitates, her eyes flicking up to meet mine, and I can see the uncertainty there—the fear of what might happen if she says yes. But there’s something else too—something that pulls her towards me, even as she tries to resist it.

When the elevator doors close, the small space suddenly feels much smaller. She leans against the wall, her eyes dazed, and her breathing is a little uneven. “Zade, why are you doing this?”

“Because I want to,” I reply simply, my eyes locked on hers. “And because I care.”

She shakes her head, a tear slipping down her cheek, and I can see the internal battle she’s fighting and the walls she’s trying so hard to keep up. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“You don’t have to decide that now,” I offer, my tone gentle but firm, carrying a promise not to push her beyond what she can handle. “Just take it one step at a time.”

When we reach my suite, I open the door and lead her inside. The room is just as I left it, spacious and elegantly decorated, and the lights dim toa soft glow that adds to the intimate atmosphere. She looks around, her eyes wide, taking in the luxury that surrounds her—the plush furniture, the large bed that dominates the room.

“Why here?” She asks, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she’s afraid of breaking the silence.

“Because I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to go home like this,” I explain, my tone matter-of-fact. “Your parents would probably be upset seeing you so hammered.”

She nods, swaying slightly on her feet, and I’m quick to guide her to the bed, helping her sit down. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her eyes fluttering closed as the exhaustion and the alcohol take their toll.

“Just rest,” I say, sitting beside her and watching as she fights to keep her eyes open. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

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