Chapter 25
Dinner was held on the restaurant’s sea-facing terrace, just as the sun dipped into the horizon.
White linen. Polished silver. Flickering candles. Wine glasses catching gold light like they were part of the performance.
Soft guitar music drifted somewhere in the background.
Waves crashed below, perfectly timed.
It was… obscene.
Jamie sat between Camille and Blake, pretending to read the menu and not stare at the man next to him.
Crisp white shirt. Sleeves rolled. That faint shadow along his jaw.
One glass of red already in hand.
This is hostile.
“This menu is unfair,” Camille muttered. “How am I supposed to choose between lobster and truffle pasta?”
“Get both,” Jacob said, already chewing. “We’re in expense-account territory.”
Toby nodded. “Tasting menu. Ten courses. Zero regrets.”
Jamie glanced sideways. “Is this research or indulgence?”
Blake didn’t look at the menu.
He looked at Jamie.
“Why can’t it be both?”
That felt like a loaded answer.
By the time the food arrived – plates that looked like art and tasted like sin in silk – the wine was flowing, and so was the conversation.
“I think the hotel’s strength is contrast,” Trisha said. “Luxury without being cold. It feels… human.”
“Yeah,” Camille agreed. “Elegant, but lived-in. Like someone actually exists here. Someone who wears linen and reads poetry.”
Jacob grinned. “Someone with a mysterious past and a very expensive skincare routine.”
Jamie laughed. “Honestly? That’s the campaign.”
Blake tilted his head. “Go on.”
Jamie sat up a little straighter.
“Don’t sell it as an escape,” he said. “Sell it as transformation. The version of you who wakes up early and drinks coffee on the balcony. Swims before breakfast. Journals in a robe.”
A beat.
“Someone softer. Freer.”
The table went quiet.
Camille clapped. “Yes. Absolutely yes.”
Toby lifted his glass. “To soft, free, rich versions of ourselves.”
Blake didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just looked at Jamie.
Like he’d just proven something.
“See?” Blake said finally, voice low. “This is what I mean. When you stop trying – you shine.”
Jamie felt the heat rise instantly. “You’re biased.”
“Painfully,” Blake murmured.
That wasn’t subtle.
Camille leaned back, eyes sharp. “Are we still pretending you two aren’t in the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ phase of your rom-com?”
Jacob nodded. “It’s exhausting. Just kiss already. Or fight and then kiss. But commit to the bit.”
Jamie choked on his wine.
Blake?
Blake just smiled.
Oh, he’s enjoying this.
Jamie hid behind his glass. “I hate all of you.”
“Liar,” Camille said sweetly.
The night softened as the plates cleared.
Laughter lingered. The kind that stuck around even after the conversation shifted.
They played a rapid-fire game of If this hotel were a person…
“Timothée Chalamet,” Camille said immediately.
“Zendaya on a weekend,” Jacob countered.
Toby pointed at Blake. “You.”
Blake didn’t miss a beat.
“No,” he said lightly, eyes sliding to Jamie. “Him.”
Jamie blinked.
Excuse me?
Blake smirked.
“Unassuming at first,” he added. “Then suddenly – completely unforgettable.”
Jamie looked down fast, fighting a smile.
This man is a problem.
Dessert arrived.
Chocolate mousse. Espresso crème brûlée. Tiny, perfect pastries.
The sky had gone dark, the sea ink-blue, the candles flickering between empty glasses and crumbs.
Jamie leaned back, full, a little tipsy, and…
happy.
The kind that felt rare.
Blake turned toward him.
Closer now.
“Not a bad Monday night.”
Jamie smiled. “Better than my usual microwave dinner.”
Blake’s gaze dropped.
Just for a second.
To Jamie’s mouth.
Then back up.
Oh.
Jamie’s breath caught – barely noticeable, but there.
And suddenly…
the noise of the table felt further away.
The air quieter.
Thicker.
Jamie held his gaze.
Didn’t look away.
If he leans in…
Blake didn’t.
Not yet.
But he didn’t move back either.
And Jamie realized…
this wasn’t a game anymore.
It was a countdown.
And someone…
very soon…
was going to break first.