Page 62 of Ghost Of You

Looking at her feels like stargazing—an experience so beautiful it almost hurts. She takes three slow steps towards me in her matching heels, and I remain rooted in place, mesmerised. A new fragrance wafts over me—something floral and fruity, a scent that makes her seem even more like a dream.

She reaches up and unfastens the top two buttons of my shirt, her fingers brushing lightly against my skin. "That's better," she says with a mischievous smile.

I grin back at her, feeling like the luckiest guy on the planet. How on earth did I get so lucky?

During the entire car ride, Laelia's been peppering me with questions about why tonight's so special. She’s asked at least twenty, each one nudging my anxiety higher. My bladder feels like it’s about to burst, and I’m teetering on the edge of either wetting myself or throwing up. Not exactly the suave fiancé-to-be I imagined.

When we arrive, the chauffeur steps up to take my keys, driving the car away with a smooth efficiency that contrasts sharply with the chaos inside my head.

We step out into the night air, the restaurant’s lights twinkling like a promise. “You’re being mysterious tonight,” Laelia teases, looping her arm through mine.

“Just want to make this night special,” I reply, trying to sound casual while my brain is screamingDon’t screw this up!

The waiter leads us to our table—a secluded spot with a perfect view of the restaurant's garden, lit with fairy lights. I pull out Laelia’s chair with a flourish, and she graces me with a quick kiss on the cheek before sitting down. As I take my seat opposite her, she picks up the menu and immediately makes a face that makes me chuckle.

She glances up, her eyebrow raised. “What’s so funny?”

“Just you and your menu face,” I reply, still grinning.

She smirks, shaking her head as she studies the menu. “I’m torn between two starters,” she admits.

“Same here,” I say, picking up my own menu. My stomach growls, reminding me that I’ve been fasting all day just so I can devour everything tonight. The food here is legendary, and if they offered takeout, I'd probably bankrupt myself ordering it every day.

“What are your top two?” I ask, hoping our tastes overlap so I can suggest we share.

“Mushroom Al-Forno or King Prawns,” she says, glancing up at me. “What about you?”

“King Prawns or Calamari,” I answer.

Her eyes light up with a mischievous glint. “What if we get all three and just be greedy? That way we can try everything.”

I laugh. Her appetite always outpaces her stomach, but tonight’s special, so why not? “You’re on.”

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

“Absolutely. It’s a celebration, after all,” I say, hoping she doesn’t catch on too soon.

We dive back into our menus, both pretending not to be staring at each other over the top. “I already know what I want for the main,” she declares. “I’ve been dreaming about it all week. Just hoped they’d have it tonight.”

The restaurant’s ever-changing menu is part of its charm—and its challenge. But Laelia’s got it down to a science.

“What’s your pick, beautiful?” I ask, already anticipating her answer.

“Mixed Seafood Risotto. It’s my absolute favourite.”

“And for dessert?” I ask, a playful smile tugging at my lips, knowing exactly what she’ll choose.

She flips to the dessert menu, and I do the same, both of us smirking as we say in unison, “Tiramisu.”

“How did you know?” she asks, eyes wide with faux surprise.

“You’re like a bee to honey when it comes to coffee-flavoured anything. Plus, I know you too well.”

Her eyes sparkle with a challenge. “How well?”

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “You only wear red lipstick, you're addicted to coffee, when you’re concentrating, you stick your tongue out, and you like your eggs scrambled with a touch of pepper. And if I kiss you, nip your skin, or even trace my fingers over a certain spot on your neck, your breath hitches and you always let out this cute little moan.”

Her cheeks flush, and she bites her lip, glancing around to make sure no one overheard. “Killian,” she mutters, half-scolding, half-embarrassed. “Not in public.”

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