Page 22 of Born in Fire

“Hence my name.” Our knees touch under the table, and I don’t pull away. “They used to take me camping in dark sky reserves to see meteor showers. We’d lie on the hood of our car with hot chocolate, counting falling stars until dawn.”

My voice catches, and I look down at my plate. Dorian waits, not rushing to fill the silence or change the subject. When I glance up, his eyes hold mine with unexpected understanding.

“The people we lose shape us as much as the ones who stay,” he says softly.

Something in his tone suggests he’s lived this truth for longer than seems possible. I find myself wanting to know more about him—the real him beneath the charm and easy confidence.

“What about your brother?” I ask. “You said you’re twins but opposites?”

Dorian laughs, the moment of solemnity passing. “Caleb got all the responsibility genes. He runs the family business with an iron fist. I handle the boring stuff and generally drive him crazy.”

“You both run Craven Industries. Where I work,” I say, because until now, he’s skirted the topic. Time to pin him down.

“Ah. You figured it out.” He smiles wryly. “Yeah. You got me. I guess you could say I’m a big shot.” He pulls a face. “We’re in everything from tech to real estate.”

“So you’re what—some kind of executive?”

“Some kind.” He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

I consider this. Normally, discovering a date was hiding his status would set off alarm bells. But Dorian doesn’t seem to haveconcealed it to be deceptive—more like he wanted to be seen for himself rather than his position.

“I suppose not,” I admit. “Though it explains the fancy restaurant.”

“Would you prefer somewhere less fancy next time?”

Next time. The assumption should irritate me, but instead, I feel a tiny thrill. “I didn’t say that.”

His smile widens. Throughout dessert—a dark chocolate torte we share—our hands brush repeatedly. Each contact feels deliberate yet natural, testing boundaries without pushing them.

When the check arrives, I reach for my purse, but Dorian gently places his hand over mine. It’s warm and strong.

“Please. I invited you.”

I hesitate, Tyler’s voice echoing in my head:I paid for dinner, so the least you could do is…

But Dorian isn’t Tyler. “Thank you,” I say simply.

Outside, the night air carries the scent of salt water. Dorian offers his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, I take it. His body radiates warmth through his jacket sleeve.

“May I drive you home?” he asks.

Normally, I’d refuse. But tonight, the thought of extending our time together outweighs caution.

“That would be nice.”

We pause at the restaurant’s entrance, where a valet hops to attention as soon as he spots Dorian. Moments later, a gleaming red Jaguar pulls up to the curb. Dorian opens the passenger door, and I slide into the buttery leather of the front seat, inhaling the warm scent I’m beginning to associate with him.

During the drive, we talk about Seattle landmarks we pass, his knowledge of the city’s history surprisingly extensive. When we reach my neighborhood, I find myself directing him all the way to my building rather than the corner, as I’d originally planned.

“Here we are,” I say as he parks.

“I’ll walk you to your door,” he says. In the dim light of his car, his expression is open, patient. No pressure, just a simple offer.

“Okay,” I decide.

We walk side by side to my building entrance, his hand occasionally brushing mine. At the door, I turn to face him, anticipation building for what might be another kiss like the one that’s occupied my thoughts since last night.

“I had a wonderful time,” he says, stepping closer. He’s so damn tall I have to tip my head back.

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