Page 10 of Power

She offered a casual shrug. “Because you’re in the industry yourself.”

“Ah, of course,” I acknowledged. “I must confess, I do have high standards.”

“When I picked this place, I considered that,” she continued. “They’ve received excellent reviews, and I thought you’d appreciate something a bit more upscale.”

“Well.” I chuckled. “I hope you don’t have the wrong impression, Calista. While I enjoy fine dining, I’m equally at home in more humble settings. One of my favorite places is a modest little café tucked away in Barcelona.”

Her laughter rang out, a melodic sound that struck me as the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

“Fair enough,” she conceded with a nod. “And please, call me Cali.”

“Cali…” I let her name linger on my lips, savoring each syllable’s soft rise and fall. “What should we order from this luxurious establishment?”

Her fingers traced the edge of a leather-bound menu. Shetilted her head. “I was studying the offerings before you arrived. The lamb looks irresistible.”

I flipped the menu open, scanned one page, then closed it with a decisive snap.

“I’ll have that too.” I offered a slow wink.

Her brows shot up. “You didn’t even look at the menu, did you?”

“No,” I admitted. As the sun slipped behind a cloud, the resulting shadow revealed her enchanting dark green eyes, now sparkling with tiny silver flecks. I could have gazed at them for hours.

“I trust you.” I lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

She leaned forward, a teasing smile tugging at her lips, revealing a single dimple. “I have good taste.”

“Which must be why you invited me tonight,” I replied.

“One hopes,” she shot back, raising her glass in a mock toast.

She swept her hair to one side, as the candlelight illuminated the graceful curve of her neck once more. A warmth unfurled inside me, making my cock grow harder with every second.

I blinked and raised the glass to my lips.

“So,” I said, settling back in my seat, “I hear you’re a formidable fighter, Calista…Cali.”

“I work hard at it,” she said, lifting her chin. “There’s always room for improvement, though.”

“Like perfecting a signature dish,” I offered.

She folded her hands on the table, watching me. “I’ve heard you’re a skilled chef.”

“Sounds like we both did our research. My family business requires me to possess an elevated level of proficiency in the kitchen to succeed. My father made sure I knew everything there was to know.”

She regarded me with careful silence.

“I make a mean lamb moussaka. It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe, inked in her own hand.” I tapped an imaginary page on the table.

She traced a circle on the tablecloth with her fingertip. “You’ll need to prove it.”

“You want proof?” I asked, lifting a brow. “I believe I need to win this competition before I can prove that.”

“It’s hardly a competition,” she remarked, shaking her head.

“Isn’t it?” I countered in mock challenge.

“No, it isn’t,” she insisted. “I’m not exactly parading you around in swimsuits and giving out scores.”

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