Page 50 of Lavender and Honey

"Perfect choice," I replied, my tone light yet sincere. "Simple but delicious." The waiter offered a courteous nod before whisking away our order into the softly lit corridors of the restaurant. I took a moment to study Lucian across our small table, noticing how the dancing candlelight softened the sharp edges of his face, lending him an almost otherworldly handsomeness.

"So," he said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled like a fine mist around us. "Tell me something about yourself that I wouldn’t guess." I tapped my fingers against the wood as I pondered, savoring the pause. "Hmm… okay, I once spent an entire summer trying to master the violin. I was utterly terrible at it."

A rich, hearty laugh burst from Lucian, deep and resonant enough to make my stomach flutter. "Really? I can’t imagine you being bad at anything," he teased warmly.

"Oh, trust me, it was a disaster," I confessed, amusement mingling with a hint of self-deprecation. "My teacher, ever so patient, eventually wore an expression of resigned, pained amusement every time I awkwardly picked up the bow."

He shook his head, still grinning, as he admired my earnest dedication despite the lackluster results. "I respect your persistence even if it didn’t quite work out. Do you still play?"

I scrunched my nose playfully. "Absolutely not. I think I completely traumatized myself."

Lucian chuckled again, taking a measured sip of his wine before inviting me with a gentle challenge. "Okay, it’s your turn. Ask me something."

Tilting my head as curiosity danced in my eyes, I ventured, "Alright… if you hadn’t pursued your current career, what path would you have chosen?"

His expression grew pensive as he savored the question, eyes briefly glinting with dreams of alternative lives. "Honestly? I think I would have become a writer. I used to be enchanted with storytelling in my youth, and though I still love it, life led me elsewhere."

Leaning forward, intrigued by his confession, I asked softly, "A writer, huh? What sort of stories would you craft?"

Lucian exhaled with a light laugh, the sound soft yet evocative. "Probably something dark and moody—stories filled with intrigue, mystery, and characters far more complex than the ordinary."

I teased, a playful lilt in my voice, "That actually makes a lot of sense. I can easily see you weaving tales featuring a brooding anti-hero."

He returned a knowing smirk, his eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. "And what about you? If you weren’t diving deep into art?"

After a brief reflective pause, I admitted, "I think I’d be a historian. There’s something endlessly fascinating about unearthing the past and piecing together lost narratives."

Lucian mused thoughtfully, "That’s an excellent fit. Art and history are like two sides of the same coin—each telling a story, albeit in very different ways."

Our conversation was momentarily interrupted by the arrival of our bruschetta, its aroma blending with the ambient scents of the restaurant. As we shared the appetizer, each bite seemed to deepen our connection, the simple pleasure of flavor harmonizing with the unspoken cadence of our glances and laughter.

Moving on to our entrees, Lucian pleasantly surprised me by recalling minute details from earlier discussions. "You mentioned once that you prefer lighter sauces over heavy ones," he said, his voice threading between genuine interest and thoughtful precision. "I figured you’d enjoy something like the pesto ravioli."

I raised an eyebrow in impressed acknowledgment. "You really pay attention."

He responded with a playful smirk, "Of course, it’s not every day I have dinner with someone as intriguing as you."

I rolled my eyes in mock reproach, adding, "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I'm willing to take that risk," he replied effortlessly, swirling his wine as if savoring the moment itself.

For a long while, we simply enjoyed our meals in companionable silence, punctuated only by the soft clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations around us. The restaurantbuzzed with a gentle hum, yet it felt as if we were cocooned in our own little world, separate from everything else.

After a lull, I set my fork down deliberately. "Okay, one more question," I said. "What’s something you’ve always dreamed of doing but never had the chance to try?"

Lucian’s eyes darkened with a hint of unspoken yearning, as if the question had unlocked a secret chamber of his heart. "I've always wanted to take a spontaneous road trip—just drive without a destination, exploring serendipitous stops wherever my eye might catch something beautiful."

I smiled at the romantic allure of his dream. "That sounds incredible. Have you ever come close to living that dream?"

"Not yet," he admitted wistfully.

"Life always seems to get in the way." I hesitated, then gently encouraged, "Maybe one day you should just go for it."

His gaze met mine, deep and impressionable, leaving his response hanging in the charged silence. "Maybe."

Our conversation dwindled into a comfortable, contemplative silence as we savored the final bites of our meals. The attentive waiter cleared our plates and then, with a knowing smile, inquired if we might indulge in dessert.

Lucian raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Do you have room for something sweet?"

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