Page 25 of Impulse Control
“So that’s the deal,” he said.
“That’s the deal.”
He considered it for a beat, eyes dancing, then leaned back and lifted his coffee in a mock toast. “You drive a hard bargain, Rachel.”
“And?”
He smiled, slow and devastating. “Fine. Dinner tonight.”
He stood, already stepping back, giving me space at last. “I’ll pick you up after work.”
I frowned. “I didn’t say?—”
“You did,” he said lightly. “You just didn’t realize it yet.”
Before I could argue, before I could reassert control, he was already walking away—this time actually leaving. I watched himdisappear down the street until the crowd swallowed him whole, pulse humming, irritation and amusement tangled tight in my chest.
Then I looked down at the pastry in my hand. Flaky. Buttery. Perfect. The kind of thing you didn’t mean to finish but somehow always did. I took a bite before I could talk myself out of it, sugar and heat blooming on my tongue.
Too good.
Too easy.
That was the problem.
Dominic had always been like this—tempting in a way that didn’t feel dangerous until it was already too late. Familiar. Delicious. Absolutely terrible for my self-control.
I swallowed, brushed crumbs from my fingers. It was only dinner, I told myself, and this is only a pastry.
I took another bite and failed, completely, not to think about him.
From Rachel’s Diary:
I keep calling tonight harmless. That word should worry me more than it does.
Dinner doesn’t look like damage when it’s sitting politely across from you. It smiles. It remembers your tells. It knows exactly how to make the past feel inevitable instead of reckless.
Dominic isn’t louder in person. He’s closer. Like distance was the only thing keeping me intact.
Paris has been teaching me restraint—how to watch without touching, how to let want exist without feeding it. René would say that’s the work. I believe him. Which is why tonight feels like sabotage dressed up as nostalgia.
I’m not pretending I don’t want this. I’m pretending I can control it.
I chose my clothes carefully. Not to entice him—but to remind myself who I am right now, not who I was when giving in felt like freedom.
It’s only dinner.
That’s the lie I’m walking out the door with.
Chapter
Six
DOMINIC
The restaurant was small, dimly lit, and alive with quiet chatter. The kind of place where everyone seemed in on a private joke, the kind of place that smelled like rosemary and garlic and wine that cost more than some people made in a week. Rachel didn’t flinch at the setting. She wasn’t impressed by opulence, never had been. That only made her more intoxicating—because I had to work harder, think faster, charm smarter.
I slid into the seat across from her, leaving just enough space for the tension to hum between us. She gave me that look—the one where she measured me, tested my intentions, weighed the risk. I leaned forward slightly, my arms resting on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of my glass.
