Nicholas didn’t say a word at first. He just stared.
Ella was halfway up the stairs when she noticed. He was leaning against the entrance to the rooftop restaurant, hands in his coat pockets, looking like sothing out of a fantasy novel—except sharper, more dangerous, and entirely too smug.
But not cold.
Not closed-off.
Tonight, he looked like a man who had won sothing—and was about to thoroughly enjoy it.
"Is that awe on your face, Mr. Carter?" Ella teased as she reached the top step.
Nicholas tilted his head. "No, awe would be an understatent."
"Oh?"
"I’m trying to think of a word stronger than ’devastated.’" He stepped closer, eyes trailing over her slowly. "You just ended , Ella."
She laughed, the sound bright in the night air. "You’re being dramatic."
"I’m being honest." He offered his arm, which she took. "If you’d told you owned a dress that could derail global economies, I’d have canceled all my etings and rescheduled my life."
"Good thing I didn’t tell you then."
"You would’ve worn it anyway?" he asked, leading her toward the private dining area just beyond the restaurant’s glass doors.
"I haven’t decided yet," she said with a smirk.
He paused mid-step, turning to face her again. "You’re dangerous tonight."
"You told to be sinful."
"I thought you’d wear sothing silky," he murmured, brushing his fingers over the low dip of her back, "not plan my public execution."
Ella rolled her eyes, even as a smile tugged at her lips. "You’re so dramatic."
"I’m being respectful. Your dress deserves a national anthem."
She laughed again, letting herself lean into him slightly as they stepped through the double doors into the softly lit rooftop dining area. String lights twinkled above them, casting a warm glow across the elegant, private space. A single table stood at the center, set for two with gleaming cutlery and wine already breathing in crystal glasses.
"You rented out the whole rooftop?" she asked, blinking.
Nicholas pulled out her chair. "I don’t share."
Ella sat down slowly, raising a brow. "You do realize this is incredibly over-the-top."
"You haven’t even seen dessert yet."
She narrowed her eyes. "What’s for dessert?"
He leaned in, voice low. "."
Ella choked on a laugh, swatting his arm. "You’re impossible."
Nicholas grinned, taking the seat across from her. "And you love it."
She tried to keep a straight face, but the smile broke through anyway.
They clinked glasses, and for a few blissful minutes, the world shrunk down to clinking cutlery, murmured flirtations, and warm candlelight. Dinner arrived in courses—fresh, decadent, far too fancy for soone like her who usually lived on espresso and whatever her coworkers ordered for lunch. But Nicholas didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
"Okay," she said around a mouthful of ridiculously tender filet mignon, "I’m just going to say it. I don’t even know what half of this is."
Nicholas wiped his mouth with his napkin, eyes glittering. "That’s because you usually eat like a gremlin."
"I do not!"
He raised a brow. "You once ate cold toast and black coffee for breakfast. Voluntarily."
She narrowed her eyes. "That was a low point."
"You also drank instant ran broth straight from the cup."
"I was in a rush."
"You’re a criminal."
She shrugged. "You still married ."
"Clearly I have a thing for criminals."
She lifted her wine glass with a grin. "That’s a dangerous statent, Mr. Carter."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "I’m feeling dangerous tonight."
And God, he looked it.
Hair tousled. Tie slightly loosened. That devil-may-care glint in his eyes that told her he was enjoying this—her, them, the mont—and didn’t care about anything else right now.
Ella rested her chin on her hand, watching him. "You know, you’re not as scary when you’re like this."
He blinked. "Like what?"
"All charming and... full of carbs."
He let out a short laugh. "You’re lucky I like you."
"Yeah?" She leaned back, lips curving. "How lucky?"
"Very," he said, deadpan. "If anyone else made fun of my appetite, they’d be in a ditch."
She snorted. "You can’t just say stuff like that with a straight face."
"I can. I did."
"You’re a nace."
"And you’re the one who keeps walking willingly into my den."
"Maybe I like danger."
Nicholas’s gaze darkened slightly, the flirtation in his voice dipping into sothing thicker, richer. "Careful."
Her breath hitched—just for a second.
Because suddenly the air felt warr. His gaze heavier. His attention so focused it felt like touch.
She cleared her throat, grabbing her water glass. "So... what’s next? Do we dance? Is there a secret rooftop band hiding behind those planters?"
Nicholas didn’t blink. "Do you want there to be?"
"I an... that depends. Do they take requests?"
"They only play one song," he said seriously. "It’s called ’Ella, stop looking at other n or Nicholas will throw them off the roof.’"
She burst out laughing again. "Catchy."
"I thought so."
They lingered over dessert—chocolate mousse and so kind of caral tart that made her consider writing a thank-you note to the chef. Nicholas spoon-fed her a bite, and even though she groaned in mock agony at the cheesiness of it, she still leaned in for seconds.
He wiped a smudge of chocolate from her lip with his thumb.
And didn’t move it right away.
"You’ve got a little—" he murmured.
Ella froze, eyes locked on his, breath catching.
And then he licked it off his thumb.
Casually.
Like it wasn’t currently ruining her entire existence.
"Jesus," she muttered.
"What?"
"You did that on purpose."
He looked far too innocent. "Did what?"
"I hate you."
"You’re welco."
She stood suddenly, needing a breath—because his smirk, that smug satisfaction, was short-circuiting her brain.
Nicholas stood too. Always a gentleman.
"Co on," he said, offering his hand. "Let’s walk."
The rooftop had a small garden section along the side. Pathways between tall hedges, little fountains gurgling softly, and benches placed strategically for dramatic declarations or makeouts.
He led her down one of the paths, fingers brushing hers lightly until she gave up and laced their hands together.
"Nice night," she murmured, glancing up at the stars.
Nicholas didn’t answer.
She turned her head—and found him already watching her.
"What?"
He stopped walking, tugging her a little closer.
"You wore my favorite perfu."
"I did."
"That’s cheating."
"Is it?"
He nodded solemnly. "I have no defenses when you sll like that."
"Poor thing," she whispered.
He backed her gently into the hedge wall, one hand curling around her waist.
"I should warn you," he said lowly. "I’m very bad at resisting temptation."
Ella arched a brow. "Is that what I am?"
"Oh no," he said with a grin, dipping his head. "You’re worse."
Then he kissed her.
Not desperate. Not possessive.
Just soft.
Just them.
And when he pulled back, lips barely brushing hers, he murmured, "Tell again why we’re not skipping dinner and going straight ho?"
Ella’s laugh was breathless. "Because I want to finish dessert."
"Fine," he groaned, tugging her hand as they started walking again. "But only because I like watching you eat. It’s weirdly hot."
She gave him a look. "You’re so strange."
"And you married ."
"Temporarily."
Nicholas paused. "Do I need to propose again?"
She blinked. "What?"
He turned to her, totally serious. "Because I have a ring hidden in my coat pocket right now. And I’m not afraid to get on one knee in front of the entire staff."
Ella’s jaw dropped. "You do not."
"Try ."
She swatted him again, laughing. "Nicholas!"
He grinned. "You started it."
And together, hand in hand, they walked back toward the candlelight, the table still waiting, the city below, the stars above—and a night that felt like it belonged only to them.
They made it back to the table, but not before Nicholas sneakily tugged her close again just to brush his lips against her temple—like he couldn’t help it. And honestly? Ella didn’t mind.
She might have minded the smug grin that ca after, though.
"You’re very handsy tonight," she teased, slipping back into her seat.
Nicholas shrugged, pouring more wine into her glass. "You look like this and expect to act with restraint? That’s bold."
Ella smirked as she picked up her glass. "You’re always bold."
"I’m always correct."
"Debatable."
He clinked their glasses again. "To , being right."
"To being patient," she replied sweetly.
He chuckled lowly. "You’re trouble."
"You love it."
"I do." He didn’t even hesitate.
That shut her up for a mont.
She busied herself with her wine, trying not to look too affected—but Nicholas was already watching her over the rim of his glass, like he could read every thought, every reaction.
And he definitely knew what he was doing when he said it like that.
Ella cleared her throat. "So, tell ... how did a spreadsheet-obsessed, control-freak CEO like you end up this charming?"
He tilted his head, pretending to consider. "Natural talent, probably. Or exposure therapy."
"To what? Flirting?"
"To you."
She rolled her eyes. "You’re impossible."
"Still your husband."
"For now," she teased.
Nicholas leaned forward, chin in his hand. "I’m taking that as a challenge."
"You take everything as a challenge."
"Wrong. I take you as a challenge. Everything else is a warm-up."
Ella blinked at him.
"Stop doing that," she muttered.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at like that."
He smirked. "Like you’re my favorite thing?"
"Exactly that."
"I can’t help it," he said, voice softening. "You’re very... distracting."
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