Page 37 of Captured By Fate

The waiter returns to take our order, recommending the chef's special—a delicate arrangement of seared scallops on a bed of saffron-infused risottos—promising that it's crafted to engage all senses. Kelley gives a slight nod, accepting his suggestion before turning her attention back to me. Her expression is unreadable, a mask of neutrality that hides her inner thoughts well.

"I hope this place is to your liking," I venture, attempting to pierce her veil of reservation. "It comes highly recommended."

Kelley nods slowly, her eyes locking with mine. "It looks wonderful,” she says dismissively.

Her gaze does not waver, and there’s an intensity to her scrutiny that feels like it’s trying to unravel the very fabric of my motives. “But why here, tonight?” she asks pointedly, her voice low and steady.

There’s an edge to her tone that suggests she’s not just asking about the choice of restaurant but probing deeper, into the layers underneath this entire evening.

The air between us thickens with unspoken words. Kelley's eyes narrow further, assessing my every expression as if trying to read between the lines of my carefully chosen words.

I lean back slightly, the leather of the chair creaking under my shift.

"Kelley," I start, my voice just loud enough to weave through the soft clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations around us. "Sometimes, the places we go aren't just about food or ambiance. They're about the stories they hold, the secrets they whisper."

I pause, watching her reaction closely. Her eyes remain fixed on mine, not missing a beat.

I lean in, with the intention of kissing her but she draws back.

“My makeup,” she says snottily. “You wouldn't want to mess it up after the big show you made of sending that crew of artists to my room, now would you?”

I smirk, loving the spice of her personality.

Her retort catches me off guard, and for a moment, the tension between us shifts into something lighter, almost playful. It's a reminder of the spark that exists amidst all the layers of complexity in our relationship.

"Why, Kelley," I respond with a grin, adopting a tone of mock offense, "I thought enhancing your already impeccable style would be appreciated. But perhaps you're right; it's best not to disrupt the masterpiece.”

She stands and heads towards the door, annoyed at my response. I slap her ass as she sails past me.

Kelley whirls around, her eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and a challenge.

"Is that the best you can do?" she snaps, the edge in her voice cutting through the background hum of the restaurant. There's a dangerous dance in her stance, one that beckons me to either step up or step back.

I rise to my feet, closing the distance between us with a few measured steps. The air seems to shift, accommodating the intensity that builds with each moment we stand locked in this confrontation. Patrons around us sneak glances, intrigued by the unfolding drama yet pretending to be absorbed in their own quiet dinners.

"Kelley," I say, my voice low and steady, but with a hint of a warning. ”Sit down. We still have so much left of the evening. We still have to eat."

I gesture towards the table with its white linen cloth gently fluttering from the evening breeze that sneaks in every time the front door opens.

Reluctantly, she returns to her seat, her movements graceful yet charged with a storm of emotions I can't quite decipher.

The waiter approaches cautiously, sensing the tension but professional enough not to comment. He sets down an amuse-bouche on our table—a small gastronomic gesture of peace—a spoonful of applewood-smoked trout topped with crème fraiche and dill.

"Please enjoy," he says with a nod, his voice a soothing balm over the rough edges of our earlier exchange.

As Kelley picks up the delicate spoon, I study her every movement, her focus on the amuse-bouche almost an escape from the intensity of our interaction. She tastes it and her eyes close momentarily, a sign of pleasure that belies the stern set of her jaw. It's these small glimpses into her unguarded self that draw me in, time and again.

I attempt, with every ounce of strength, to draw her into conversation. I need to get into her head. I want to know what she’s thinking. To know what her intentions are. I need to know for the club, but more so, for myself.

Her answers, however, are clipped and guarded. It provides me with absolutely none of the answers I seek.

23

KELLEY

Idon’t trust him. I’m not sure what we’re doing here or what he wants, but I know we’re not just here for the food.

Despite how much effort he’s put into the evening, I can’t help the suspicion coloring my every move, my every thought. No matter how you slice it, Jackson is my captor. My conflicting feelings toward him don’t matter right now.

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