The maître d' led us through the dimly lit restaurant with the kind of reverent hush usually reserved for funerals or five-star tasting menus.
The place was all gleaming marble and curated shadows, the kind of establishment where every bottle of wine had a backstory and a body count.
Cameron was beside me, fixing his cufflinks like he was about to walk into a press conference instead of a blind date. He'd been annoyingly chipper the whole ride here—making jokes, poking at my eternally grim expression and humming off-key to a song that wouldn't stop playing.
"This is going to be a disaster," I muttered as we crossed the restaurant floor, following the hostess to our reserved table.
"That's the spirit," Cameron said cheerfully. "Remember: glare, growl, radiate jealousy. You're the reason no other man dares flirt with me."
I didn't respond. My focus had shifted to the table ahead.
It was already occupied.
