Lena stared at herself in the mirror, smoothing the front of her deep green sweater dress. It wasn't too much. It wasn't trying too hard. Just enough to say, I'm here, and I know what I'm walking into. She tucked a curl behind her ear, grabbed the small box of tiramisu she'd made fresh, and slipped into her coat.
Walker's penthouse was only fifteen minutes away, but with every mile, her heart thudded faster. The last time she'd been there was years ago—back when his parents had hosted a fundraiser and she'd helped pass out hors d'oeuvres, unnoticed. Tonight, she was walking in as someone who kissed him in the early morning light and made his coffee too sweet on purpose.
When he opened the door, he looked like he'd just stepped out of a catalog—dark gray sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a glass of wine in one hand. But the way his eyes softened when he saw her? That was what made her knees wobble.
"You came," he said, stepping aside.
"You invited me."
"I didn't think you'd actually say yes."
"I didn't either," she said, holding up the tiramisu. "But I brought dessert, so you're stuck with me."
Dinner was already on the table—rosemary chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted carrots. Lena blinked. "You cooked?"
"I do more than sign contracts and bark orders."
She raised a brow. "Show-off."
They ate in the warm glow of pendant lights and soft music. Conversation flowed easily—childhood memories, stories from college, the disasters of learning to run a business. Every time their hands brushed or their knees bumped under the table, the tension grew thicker.
By the time dessert came around, Lena had forgotten how to breathe. Walker set the plates down and sat beside her, instead of across. He tasted the tiramisu, closed his eyes, and groaned low in his throat.
"That good?" she asked, heart pounding.
He turned toward her, his voice low. "Dangerously good."
The silence that followed was charged. Walker reached out, tracing a finger gently along her jaw. "Lena... tell me to stop."
She didn't.
He leaned in, slow, giving her every chance to pull away. When their lips met, it was softer than their kiss that morning—less heat, more depth. But the second she responded, the match was struck. His hand slipped into her hair, her fingers curled into his shirt, and the kiss deepened into something full of want, full of need.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against hers.
"This feels like a line we can't uncross," she whispered.
"I don't want to," he replied, brushing his lips against her cheek. "Do you?"
She shook her head, her voice catching. "No. But I'm scared."
"Then let me be the one thing you don't have to be scared of."
And in that moment, with the city glowing behind them and the warmth of his touch melting every fear she'd tried to hold onto, Lena let go—just a little. Enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, this recipe could turn into something real.