Page 41 of Devil's Iris
Dean steps out to open the back door, his face lighting up with a warm smile. “If I may, you look particularly lovely this evening, Miss Barlowe.”
I beam at him, the compliment making me a little giddy. “Thank you, Dean. And please call me Leni.”
He just smiles as he closes the door, but I catch the way his eyes soften.
As the car pulls away from Romero’s house, I press my palm over my belly where a whole zoo of nerves and excitement is stomping around.
By the time we’re past downtown Brooklyn, it becomes obvious where we’re headed, and my heart pounds even harder. The River Café is one of the most romantic restaurants in Brooklyn. I’ve always dreamed about one day being able to afford a meal there. Getting proposed to there? That’s a dream inside a dream… even if it’s fake.
Romero is waiting outside, looking impossibly handsome in his three-piece gray suit with a dark green tie that perfectly matches my dress. The twinkling fairy lights at the entrance create a romantic halo around him, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
How is this my life?
Dean rolls the car to a stop, and Romero steps forward to open my door, offering me his hand. I slip my fingers into his,and that familiar electric jolt shoots through my bloodstream at the contact.
I flush as he helps me out, stumbling slightly into his hard chest thanks to the ridiculous height of my heels I’m still adjusting to.
“Easy,” he murmurs against my ear, his hands immediately going to my waist, just below the exposed skin of my back. His thumb grazes there, sending a delicious shiver racing up my spine.
I look up at him, suddenly aware of how close we are, how the heels bring me almost to his eye level.My breath catches as I lose myself in those breathtaking green depths, his scent—cologne with a mix of cedar and spice—filling my senses and making my head spin.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.
I nod, taking a step back, not missing the sharp inhale he takes as his gaze sweeps over me.
“You’re stunning.” He sounds almost troubled by the admission, like my appearance is a complication he hadn’t anticipated.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Shall we?” He offers me the crook of his elbow, and after I take it, he leads me through the doors.
The maître d' in his sharp black suit greets us at the entrance. One look at Romero, and he immediately ushers us into the main restaurant without even asking about our reservation.
Inside, everything is bathed in warm, romantic lighting. Crisp white tablecloths, polished silverware, and fresh roses grace each table. A violinist plays softly in the corner, the melody drifting through the air, adding to the dreamy ambiance. I recognize the song she’s playing and smile, humming along in my head.
We’re led to what must be the best table in the house—bythe window, with the Brooklyn Bridge lit up in the distance, its reflection shimmering across the water and the Manhattan skyline glowing beyond.
Romero pulls out my chair, and I sink into it gracefully, smoothing my hand over the silk of my dress.
“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” the maître d' says as he pops open a bottle of wine and pours us each a glass before leaving.
“You’re staring,” Romero observes quietly, his voice laced with amusement as I continue to gawk at our surroundings, trying to avoid the curious gazes of the other diners.
I chuckle, finally bringing my attention back to him. “Can you blame me? This place is unreal.”
He smirks, running his index finger along the rim of his wine glass. “Only the best for you,” he says lightly, and my chest tightens painfully. Jokes or not, no one has ever said those words to me before, and something deep inside tells me he actually means it. He bought me this dress. A house for my family—in my name, for crying out loud.
This isn’t real.
I’m going to have to keep chanting this mantra until it finally sinks into my brain and my heart stops doing backflips every time he says something sweet. “My mom and Ethan moved into their house today. Thank you.”
He shrugs. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“No, let me. That wasn’t written anywhere in the contract. You didn’t have to do it.” The reminder about the contract, about what this really is, sobers me a bit. Romero studies me with curious eyes, like he can sense the slight change in my mood. Impossible.
Our waitress arrives with perfect timing, and I blow out a breath, grateful for the interruption.
Once our orders are in, he asks me about my favorite childhood memory, and I latch onto the subject change, onlytoo happy to talk about summers spent in Central Park with Ethan, Mom, and Dad before everything fell apart. Back when my biggest dream was convincing Dad to get me a tabby cat.
