Chapter 38

Dinner was in a tucked-away little Italian restaurant on a cobbled side street in Notting Hill.

Low lighting, wood beams, brick walls. Tables close enough to hear the laughter beside you, but far enough for private moments to stay private.

Blake had called it “nothing fancy” – which, of course, meant it was effortlessly perfect.

The kind of place where the waiters spoke Italian with flour on their aprons and where the bread came warm, crusty, and bottomless.

Jamie sat across from Blake, shoulders finally relaxed after a long week, a glass of red wine in one hand and Blake’s fingers twined with his in the other.

“I used to dream of dinners like this,” Jamie admitted, smiling as he dipped a piece of bread into olive oil. “Like… being with someone, laughing over wine, holding hands, not having to pretend I’m someone I’m not.”

Blake kissed his knuckles. “You’re not pretending now.”

Jamie looked down, sheepish but glowing. “No. I don’t think I am.”

Blake smiled at him. “Good. Because the real you? I’m wildly into him.”

Jamie laughed softly, cheeks pink. “Even the guy who ordered the four-cheese gnocchi and now regrets wearing tight jeans?”

“Especially that guy.”

They ate slowly – gnocchi, linguine with lemon and prawns, a side of roasted vegetables that were apparently “life-changing,” and two glasses of Chianti that turned Jamie’s laughter loose and Blake’s eyes molten.

They told stories – childhood ones, travel fails, bad date horror stories, ridiculous office moments.

Jamie laughed so hard at Blake’s impression of a panicking intern, he had to put down his fork.

Blake reached across the table, brushing a crumb from Jamie’s lip with his thumb. “You’re beautiful when you forget to perform.”

Jamie stared at him, breath caught.

Then whispered, “You make that really easy.”

And just like that, the whole world faded into warm candlelight and the sound of plates being cleared in the background.

It wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

Because it was real.