EVELYN

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Evelyn's POV

The cab pulled up in front of La Sorella, a quaint little restaurant tucked away in a quiet part of town. I hesitated as I paid the driver, my heart thumping erratically. The building was beautiful, almost out of a painting, with ivy curling around its brick walls and glowing lanterns casting a warm, inviting light. The sign above the door, painted in elegant cursive, made the whole place feel impossibly perfect.

I smoothed down my dress, suddenly unsure of how I looked, and stepped out. My heels clicked against the cobblestones as I approached the glass-paneled entrance. Through the window, I spotted Luke.

He sat at a small table near the corner, leaning slightly back in his chair with his phone in hand. He was dressed immaculately—a white button-up shirt that fit him perfectly, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, and dark tailored trousers that hinted at his sharp sense of style. A charcoal blazer hung neatly on the back of his chair.

I paused at the door, clutching my bag tightly. Was this too much? Should I have worn something else? Just as my thoughts spiraled, he looked up.

The moment he saw me, his expression shifted. His eyes widened, his lips parting slightly as though he were about to say something but forgot how. For a brief moment, he seemed to freeze, blinking rapidly before recovering with a soft, almost sheepish smile.

I opened the door, the little chime ringing above me.

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste. “Evelyn,” he said, his voice a little breathless. “You look… amazing.”

My cheeks burned as I approached the table, smiling shyly. “Thank you.”

His gaze lingered for a moment longer, and then he blinked, stepping forward. “Here, let me—” He pulled out my chair for me, his hand brushing mine for the briefest second as I sat down.

The table was small and intimate, a single candle flickering between us. The restaurant itself was cozy, the walls lined with framed vintage photos and shelves stacked with old books and wine bottles. The hum of soft jazz played in the background, blending seamlessly with the quiet murmur of other diners.

A waiter appeared moments later, offering menus with a polite smile. Luke took his first, thanking the man, before handing one to me. “Take your time,” he said, his tone gentle.

I tried to focus on the menu, but I could feel his eyes on me. Every time I glanced up, he’d quickly look away, pretending to study his own options. It was endearing, and for a moment, I forgot how nervous I was.

We placed our orders—pasta for me, steak for him—and as we waited for the food to arrive, the conversation flowed easily. Luke had a way of making even the simplest topics seem interesting. He told me about his training for the upcoming soccer season, how he once accidentally hit his coach with a ball during practice, and his stories had me laughing more than I had in weeks.

“You should laugh more often,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “It suits you.”

I looked down, fiddling with my napkin. “It’s been… hard to.”

His smile faltered, but he quickly recovered. “Well, I’m glad I could help a little tonight.”

Dinner arrived, and the food was as delicious as the atmosphere suggested. We ate slowly, sipping on wine between bites, and I realized how comfortable I felt despite my earlier fears.

When we finished, he suggested a walk, and I agreed. The air outside was crisp and cool, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead as we strolled down the quiet path.