Page 55 of Boiling Point
He squeezed my hand, smiling. “A charming little place called Josephine’s.”
“What kind of place is it?” I asked, curiosity tugging at my voice.
His smile widened, a playful edge to it. “Do you know how hard it is to find a nice restaurant with a dance floor?”
Chapter 21
Callum
Iwalked around to Gabrielle’s side and opened the car door, holding my breath against the night’s chill. She accepted my hand and stepped out gracefully, a vision in plum silk. Her dress hugged her waist, then flared gently, its low neckline a perfect invitation to everything I wasn’t supposed to want. She looked stunning—an elegant risk in every way that mattered.
“In that dress,” I said, my breath fogging as I pulled her close, “you’re going to make me break all kinds of rules tonight.”
“Promise?” Her eyes sparked with mischief—and something softer beneath it.
I kissed her forehead, the heat of her pressed against me, then reluctantly let her go. Still, I kept her close as we walked toward the restaurant.
Josephine’s stood at the end of the street like a grand old lady, its exterior an artful imitation of a restored Queen Anne. Twinkling lights danced along the porch railings, and its name glowed in boldly lit letters. Gabrielle shivered as we climbed the stairs, and I slipped my arm around her shoulders.
“Cold?”
“Less so now,” she said, tilting her face up with a smile that left me recalculating every boundary I’d ever drawn.
Inside, the restaurant was warm and inviting. Red wine, garlic, and spice hung in the air, each note distinct but perfectly blended. I gave the hostess my name, and she led us to a rounded booth with a high red leather back tucked into the corner behind a delicate screen of greenery. It was intimate without being sequestered—exactly the balance I’d hoped for.
A vintage crystal chandelier cast soft light over white linen tables. The low hum of conversation wove through the gentle strains of a jazz trio near the far wall, and smartly dressed couples swayed lazily on the dance floor.
Gabrielle slid in beside me, close enough that our legs brushed under the table. She leaned into me, her warmth settling against my side like it belonged there.
“This is amazing,” she said, her voice low with awe.
“Perhaps I should’ve worn a tie,” I said, glancing around. “I didn’t realize Dallas had such potential for sophistication.”
“You’re perfect.” She squeezed my hand—and gave me a look that made me briefly regret booking a table instead of a hotel room.
The menus came tucked into leather folders—elegant, minimalist, and clearly curated for people who didn’t blink at the price. Gabrielle skimmed over hers, a flicker of uncertainty playing beneath the edges of a smile.
“This feels…elevated,” she said, eyes scanning the page. “I’m not used to dating like this.”
I smiled over the rim of my glass. “I’m not used to dating, full stop.”
She looked up, surprised into a soft laugh. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I said. “Plenty of dinners. Fewer I’d call dates.”
Her eyes sparkled as she looked back down at the drink list. “What’s the protocol? Wine? Cocktails?”
“Depends,” I said, glancing up at the waiter approaching our table. “But I’d say this calls for champagne.”
She quirked a brow. “Champagne before dinner?”
“Bubbles before dinner. Wine with. It’s all about rhythm,” I said, voice low and teasing. “The French say it opens the appetite.”
“For food, or…?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
The waiter appeared, and I ordered two glasses of Saint-Chamant Blanc de Blancs. Gabrielle leaned back slightly as they were poured, watching the fine streams of bubbles rise in her glass.
