Page 64 of Thor

"Pretty sure you were cheating," he countered.

This time, I didn’t hold back. And when Thor looked at me with admiration, I felt like I could conquer the world.

Afterclimbing,Thordroveus to a part of Ironridge I barely recognized. The arts district had sprung up in recent years, transforming abandoned warehouses into galleries, cafés, and specialty shops. He parked his truck in front of a small restaurant with a simple sign reading "Emilio's" in understated script. From the outside, it looked unassuming, even forgettable. But when we stepped inside, I couldn't hide my surprise. The interior opened into an intimate space of exposed brick and dark wood, with amber pendant lights casting a golden glow over white-clothed tables. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers, and the scent of garlic, wine, and herbs wrapped around us like an embrace.

"Mr. Eriksson!" A silver-haired man in his sixties approached, greeting Thor with a warm handshake that evolved into a quick embrace. "So good to see you again."

"Emilio," Thor responded, his deep voice gentler than usual. "This is Mandy. Mandy, this is Emilio, best chef in Colorado."

"You flatter an old man," Emilio said, turning to me with twinkling eyes. "Any friend of Thor's is welcome here. I have your table ready."

I shot Thor a questioning glance as Emilio led us through the dining room toward a secluded corner table partially screened by a decorative wooden partition. The other diners were well-dressed, the atmosphere quietly elegant—completely at odds with Thor's usual haunts.

"You come here often?" I asked as we were seated, genuine curiosity in my voice.

Thor waited until Emilio had left before answering. "For business sometimes." He looked almost self-conscious, a vulnerability I rarely saw in him. "But I've always wanted to bring someone special here. And seeing as you thrashed me up the wall, I owe you a good dinner."

I glanced around at the understated luxury—the polished silverware, the crystal wine glasses, the fresh flowers in a small vase at the center of the table.

"It's beautiful," I said honestly. "Just not what I expected."

"Because bikers can't appreciate good food?" There was no edge to his question, just genuine curiosity.

"No," I tried to explain, "because you always seem so . . . functional about things. Your cabin, your clothes, even breakfast this morning. Practical. This is . . ."

"Impractical?" He supplied with a half-smile.

"Indulgent," I corrected. "In the best way."

A server appeared with menus and a wine list that made my eyebrows rise. Prices weren't listed—never a good sign for the budget-conscious.

“You know you don’t have to pay for all of this. We can spl—”

"My treat," he said firmly. "All of it."

I wanted to protest out of habit—I'd been financially independent since college, paying my own way as a point of pride. But I recognized the look in Thor's eyes. This wasn't about money; it was about giving me something special. Refusing would hurt him in ways I didn't want to.

"Thank you," I said instead, allowing him this pleasure.

Thor ordered wine with the confidence of someone familiar with the list, then turned his full attention to me as the server departed. In the soft lighting, his face looked different—the harsh angles softened, the perpetual alertness in his eyes replaced by genuine warmth.

"So," he said, leaning forward slightly, "tell me something I don't know about you yet."

"Like what?" I asked, caught off guard by the open-ended question.

"Anything. Not work." His lips quirked. "I already know you're brilliant at that. Tell me about . . . books you love. Places you want to visit someday. Childhood memories. The stuff that makes you you."

I found myself telling him about my favorite novel—a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre I'd read so many times the spine had cracked. How I'd secretly admired Jane's quiet strength, her unwavering sense of self even when the world tried to diminish her.

"I've never read it," Thor admitted. "Maybe I should."

"You'd probably hate it," I laughed. "Not exactly filled with motorcycle chases and bar fights."

"You'd be surprised what I enjoy reading," he countered, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Try me."

That led to a discussion of books we'd both read—discovery of shared appreciation for Stephen King's storytelling, good-natured disagreement over whether Jack London's Call of the Wild was better than White Fang.

Our wine arrived, followed by appetizers Thor had ordered without consulting the menu. Fresh bread, a selection of cheeses, and something involving prosciutto and figs that tasted like heaven.

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