We’re seated quickly. A booth tucked into the corner. Intimate without being obvious.
When the waiter arrives, I don’t even look at the list. I name a vintage Barolo. It’s rare, complex—the kind of bottlepeople wait years to open. He nods once, recognition flickering across his face, and disappears.
Melissa’s eyes snap to mine. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I know what I like,” I say simply.
“And you assume I will too?”
I shrug. “Calculated risk.”
The wine arrives, poured with ceremony. The moment she smells it, her expression changes completely.
“Oh,” she breathes, leaning closer to the glass. “This is …” She laughs again, genuinely delighted. “This is incredible.”
I feel an unexpected surge of satisfaction at that. Watching her light up over something as simple as wine. Watching the edges soften. And those red lips. The way they press delicately against the rim of the glass. How plump and ready they look to be devoured.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as my dick hardens slightly.
“I thought you might like it,” I reply as I take a sip, then place the glass down and lean back. “You like wine?” I ask despite knowing the answer.
She smiles slowly. “I love wine. I’ve got this amazing wine book that has taught me so much about the process. I find it so fascinating.”
I see her eyes trail to the label of the bottle and open wide with interest.
“Colton”—she sits up straighter— “this is a 2010 Barolo. What on earth did you do? This is too much!”
I chuckle as I rub my chin. “Why don’t you let me decide what’s too much?” I say, then wink.
She exhales and falls back in her seat. “I see you’re bossy, even outside of work.”
My body tenses. I think about what kind of bossy I could show her. I panic for a moment, wondering if she’s even the type of woman who likes dirty, rough sex. Then I see her adjust herself in her seat, and redness appears on her neck and cheeks as she sees where my mind has gone. Maybe not.
Dinner unfolds easily after that. Conversation flows in a way that surprises me. She tells me about her childhood, about nursing school, about how she learned to stay steady in the middle of chaos. She tells me about her parents, whom she isn’t close with. Her mom being an alcoholic and her father a classic avoider.
And eventually … we talk about Bryce.
She doesn’t bring him up dramatically. No heavy preamble. Just a quiet truth laid between us.
“This is my first date since he died,” she says, eyes steady but vulnerable. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever want one again.”
My breath catches hard behind my ribs.
“I’m glad you did,” I say carefully as I look her in the eyes.
“So am I,” she admits. “Even if it’s terrifying.”
We finish dessert slowly but neither of us some to be ready for the night to end.
The drive back is quieter than the one there. Not awkward. Charged.
The wine has loosened her enough that she feels closer beside me, her body angled slightly my way now. Every small movement registers sharply.
I keep my eyes on the road—because if I look at her the way I want to, I won’t make it to her building.
Her voice is softer now when she speaks, slower, like she’s letting herself linger in each moment instead of rushing through it. I answer her easily, but every word feels like it’s coming through clenched restraint.
By the time I pull up in front of her building, my hands are tight on the steering wheel.