Page 13 of The Placeholder
His gaze sweeps back to me—calm, magnetic, with dark eyes that feel like they’re tracing the shape of my thoughts. My knees involuntarily grow weak. “I insist.” He leans back, every movement deliberate and easy, like a panther stretching. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Della.”
Then he nods to Liana and glides away, his strides long and powerful. I can’t stop watching his broad shoulders disappear between tables. He reaches the corner booth, where another man—tall too, with a teasing grin—waits. They share a quick, silent exchange before Axel settles in, the booth’s padded leather swallowing him.
The instant he’s out of earshot, Liana tugs me to her, her breath fragrant with citrus and intrigue. “Holy shit,” she hisses, sliding onto the empty stool. “Who was that—and what did you do to deserve him? The man looks like he could bench-press a car while reciting sonnets.”
I bite my lip, a laugh bubbling up, high and jittery. “I have no idea. He just… appeared when that other guy was hitting on me. Then he said—” I hesitate, caught between disbelief and thrill.
“Said what?” Liana leans so close I can see the flecks of green in her eyes.
“He told me five things about himself,” I whisper, voice trembling as a coaster clinks under Liana’s hand. “And the fifth was that he’s the man who’s going to marry me.”
Liana’s jaw drops so hard I swear I hear it. “He said that? On the first meeting? That’s either the most romanticthing I’ve ever heard or straight-up restraining order territory.”
I shrug, swirling my martini. The olive centerpiece glistens under the bar’s warm glow. “Here’s the crazy part—it didn’t feel creepy. It felt…” I close my eyes, searching. “Inevitable.”
“Della York,” Liana says, waving to summon her usual whiskey sour, the ice rattling as the bartender pours. “I’ve known you eight years, and I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that. Not even Jared.”
I lift my glass to my lips. The gin burns just enough, warms my chest. “Especially not Jared,” I admit. “There’s something about him—he’s so… present. Like every second he’s fully here, entirely himself.”
Liana smirks, amber drink perched between her fingers. “Including marrying you, apparently. So when’s the wedding?”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at my cheeks. Across the room, Axel’s head lifts from his brother’s shoulder. He locks eyes with me—and instead of looking away, he holds my gaze. A silent promise flits between us, electric and impossible to ignore.
“Earth to Della,” Liana teases, snapping her fingers a few inches from my face. “You’ve got it bad, girl.”
“I just met him,” I protest, though my racing heart argues otherwise.
Liana chuckles, swirling her drink. “Yet he’s already got your number and promised to call tomorrow.” She tilts her head, conspiratorial. “So what else did this future husband of yours reveal?”
As I recount the other four things he told me—each more surprising than the last—a thrilling anticipation coilsin my belly. Tomorrow he’ll call. Tomorrow I’ll hear that smooth voice again. Tomorrow, this reckless, beautiful mystery might start to make sense.
Or maybe it’ll stay inexplicable. Some moments aren’t meant to be explained—just savored.
For once, I’m perfectly fine not knowing what comes next.
CHAPTER 7
AXEL
Icheck my watch for the third time in five minutes, the titanium band catching on the starched cuff of my shirt beneath my charcoal suit jacket. The hostess catches my eye across the marble-floored entryway of Lumière, her crimson-painted lips curving into a professional smile as she nods toward the gold-trimmed entrance doors. And then Della walks in.
My heart does something it hasn’t done since my first combat deployment in Kandahar—it stutters, then pounds against my ribs like artillery fire. She’s wearing a midnight blue dress that falls just below her knees, the silky fabric shimmering like moonlight on water as she moves. Her chestnut hair cascades over her bare shoulders in loose waves that catch the amber glow of the pendant lights, and when she spots me, her smile transforms her face, the tension around her eyes melting away like watching the sun break through storm clouds after a week of rain.
My throat goes dry as she approaches. “You came,” I say, the words emerging with military precision despitethe adrenaline surge coursing through me. Eight years navigating war zones and another six commanding a security firm handling billion-dollar clients, yet her presence hits harder than incoming fire.
“I said I would,” she replies, her voice carrying that gentle lilt that cuts through my defenses like a tactical blade. “I keep my promises, too.”
The reference to our bar conversation lands like a direct hit. I offer my arm—solid, steady—cataloging every tactical detail as her delicate fingers press against the muscle beneath my jacket sleeve. Her perfume—something floral with hints of vanilla—ambushes my senses as I guide her toward the maître d’, my shoulders squared and stance protective.
I lock eyes with the maître d’. “Warner, reservation for two,” I state with the same authority I use in my tactical briefings. He snaps to attention, leading us through the crowded dining room where I instinctively scan for exits and vantage points. Our destination: a corner table with strategic positioning—private, defensible, with a commanding view of the L.A. skyline where millions of lights pierce the darkness like tracer fire.
Della’s sharp intake of breath catches my attention. Her eyes widen as she takes in the twenty-foot ceilings with their massive crystal fixtures hanging like suspended artillery.
“Too much?” I ask, my hand hovering at the small of her back. Most of the women in my orbit expect this battlefield of luxury, but Della’s different—she’s substance over show, like a reliable sidearm over ceremonial brass.
She shakes her head, those blue eyes—deeper than the ocean at midnight—meeting mine with a directness thattriggers my tactical assessment instincts. “No, it’s beautiful. Just unexpected.”
I pull out her chair with one fluid motion, my calloused fingers accidentally brushing against her bare shoulder as she sits. The brief contact sends a jolt through my combat-hardened nervous system, like the adrenaline surge before a high-risk extraction. “I wanted somewhere defensible with clear sightlines,” I explain, scanning the room once more before settling my six-foot-three frame into the reinforced chair across from her. “Somewhere worthy of you.”
