Page 97 of Forged

“Eight o’clock,” Lars confirms.

I lean my hip against the counter and fold my arms loosely, watching him with interest.

“You planned this without warning me?”

His brow lifts. “Would you have said no?”

“No,” I admit. “But I might have asked more questions.”

Curiosity flickers in his expression.

“You seemed comfortable with the idea last week.”

Comfortable is one way to describe it. I clear my throat gently and push the memory of that night with Gabriel aside before itcarries me somewhere far less appropriate for the middle of our kitchen.

I tilt my head. “And what exactly are we expecting tonight?”

“Dinner,” he replies calmly. “Conversation.”

Gabriel’s not just a charming stranger we met at a bar, he’s a man Lars is allowing close. If I’ve learned anything during our short time together, it’s that for a man like Lars, dinner is far more intimate than sex.

I push away from the counter and move toward the stairs that lead to our bedroom, pausing just long enough to glance back at him over my shoulder. His eyes drift lazily down my body and back up again, the quiet heat in his eyes making my pulse jump. Excitement fills me as I walk upstairs.

The restaurant sits justoff North State Street, tucked into a row of buildings that glow with polished glass and warm light.

I smooth my hands down the sides of my dress before we step out of the car, more out of nervous habit than necessity. The fabric is a deep blue silk that clings in a way that makes me feel both elegant and slightly dangerous, the neckline low enough to draw attention without trying too hard. My heels are high enough that one wrong step could probably snap an ankle, but the height gives me the confidence I want tonight.

When Lars told me earlier that we were meeting Gabriel this evening, a dangerous excitement hit me. I tried to play it off with a casual smile, but the truth is I spent entirely too long standing in our closet debating between three different dresses before settling on the blue one. I wanted to look good. Not just for Lars, but for Gabriel too.

While I got ready, I realized something important. Lars had listened. And instead of pretending my curiosity didn’t exist, myhusband had arranged dinner with the man that brought us both to our knees. The thought sends another quiet rush of heat through me as the valet approaches to open my door. Lars circles the back of the car and offers me his hand. I take it carefully, stepping out onto the sidewalk as the cool evening air brushes against my bare legs.

“Good evening, Mr. Marchetti,” the valet greets him.

Lars hands him the key fob with a quiet nod. The exchange is an effortless interaction that comes from the reputation his name carries in this city. His hand settles at the small of my back as we walk toward the restaurant’s entrance. That touch has become an instinct between us now.

Inside, the atmosphere shifts from the noise of the city street outside. A soft hum of conversation fills the space. I glance through the dining room and see what look like business dinners and couples leaning across small tables. A group of men in suits laughing softly near the back. For a moment I simply take it all in. Then my gaze drifts toward the bar, and there he is.

Gabriel sits at the far end of the long dark wood counter, one elbow resting casually against the surface while he studies the amber liquid in the glass in front of him. The soft lighting above the bar catches the sweep of his tawny hair and the clean lines of his jaw. He looks exactly the same way he did the night we met him. He’s tall even while seated with broad shoulders beneath a charcoal jacket that fits him entirely too well. His posture is relaxed in a way that suggests patience rather than boredom.

Anticipation curls low in my stomach.

The bartender says something to him then, and Gabriel’s mouth curves in response. Then he glances up and his eyes meet mine across the room.

Gabriel rises from the bar stool, and the movement draws attention without trying to. He straightens easily, pushing the glass aside while he turns toward us, one hand sliding through his hair as he steps away from the bar.

For a second the three of us simply look at each other across the room as the memory of that night settles quietly between us.Lars starts forward first and I feel the safety of his hand guiding me as we cross the floor, the confident rhythm of his stride pulling me along beside him. Gabriel watches us approach with the same focused calm I remember, his gaze moving between us.

When we stop in front of him, the air between the three of us feels charged.

“Gabriel,” Lars says.

Gabriel extends his hand. “Lars.”

Gabriel releases Lars’ hand and leans toward me, placing a featherlight kiss on my cheek.

“Neomi.”

The way he says my name sends a ripple of heat through my chest.