Page 48 of Dial L for Lawyer
My phone vibrates.
Caleb:
Pulling up now. Please be there.
My heart cracks a little at the ‘please.’
Me:
Window table. Red dress. Already drinking our wine.
Caleb:
Red?
Me:
Seemed brave at the time. Now questioning everything.
Caleb:
Don't. I can see you through the window and... Christ, Serena.
I look up and there he is, standing on the sidewalk, frozen mid-step, staring at me through the glass like I'm something he conjured. Navy suit, no tie, top button undone. His hair is slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and the raw hunger in his expression makes every cell in my body go molten.
I raise my wine glass in greeting. I'm here. I showed up.
He's through the door in seconds, moving with that predatory grace that made me notice him in the first place. The entire restaurant seems to pause as he crosses to me. When he reaches the table, he doesn't sit immediately, just stands there looking at me like I might disappear if he blinks.
"You're early," he says, voice rough.
"Figured I owed you that. Me actually showing up. Early, even."
He sits, eyes never leaving mine. "The red dress is..."
"Subtle? Understated? Exactly what you'd expect from someone being investigated for corporate espionage?"
"I was going to say incredible." His gaze travels over me slowly, appreciatively. "You look like you're ready to conquer something."
"Just dinner," I say, but my voice comes out breathy.
"Right. Dinner." He picks up his wine, and I notice his hand trembles slightly. "You ordered the Stag's Leap."
"You mentioned it once. In a text at some ungodly hour when we were discussing wine pairings. You said it was sophisticated without trying too hard."
Something shifts in his expression. "You filed that away."
"I remember everything." I take a sip for courage. "Every text. Every terrible joke. Every time you made me laugh when I was spiraling about work. How I desperately wanted to say yes to you way before I did."
"Serena—"
"I need to say this before I lose my nerve." My fingers grip the stem too tightly. "I've never dated someone who actually mattered to me before. Someone whose opinion I care about. Someone who makes me want to be better than I am."
The admission hangs between us, fragile as a soap bubble, and I feel laid bare. I brace for him to laugh, to make a joke, to do anything to deflect the raw honesty I’ve just dropped onthe table. Instead, he just watches me, his eyes so dark they’re almost black. The silence stretches, pulling tight, and I’m about to snatch the words back when he reaches across the table. His hand covers mine, warm and steady, his thumb stroking over my knuckles in a slow, deliberate circle.
"And you," he says, his voice a low rasp that vibrates straight through me, "make me want to be the man who deserves it."
My brain short-circuits. All the witty comebacks I practiced in the Uber, all the carefully constructed defenses—they just evaporate under the weight of his gaze. His thumb continues its hypnotic rhythm against my skin, a simple touch that feels like a brand. A claim. A promise. I feel seen, straight through the red dress and the armor I wear beneath it, all the way to the terrified, hopeful girl I keep locked away.
