3

Vivian's POV

When he said my name—"Vivian"—with those confident, sensual lips and that teasing smirk, it felt like he was savoring every detail of my existence. It was an unsettling feeling, one that passed as quickly as it came. His smirk widened into something resembling a smile—a rare sight on his smoldering face. A wave of ease washed over me, and I found myself smiling back.

"That was a rocky start," I admitted with a nervous laugh. As I moved to take my seat, my purse strap caught on the chair’s armrest. Before I could fumble with it, he reached over and effortlessly untangled it, hooking it onto a hidden table hook with practiced ease.

"How gallant," I murmured, sinking into my chair. "You must be a seasoned pro at this."

"Actually, you're my first and last," he replied, amusement flickering in his eyes. I feigned shock, pressing a hand to my chest.

"Giving up on dating already?"

"Or perhaps we’re destined to be together," he teased.

I snorted. "Even if I believed in fate—which I don’t—you’re the last person I’d think would."

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow. "What else do you think you know about me, Vivian?"

I studied him, tapping a finger against my lips. His black suit was tailored to perfection, his cream-colored shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at a sculpted chest. His haircut was stylish, his watch expensive, and he exuded an air of confidence so effortless it bordered on arrogance. Everything about him screamed wealth, power, and a quiet promise of heartbreak.

"No way this is your first blind date," I said finally.

He smirked. "You’d be surprised. Men in my position don’t usually indulge in... distractions like this."

I laughed. "First, I’m the woman who made you quit dating, and now, I’m a ‘distraction’? Keep flattering me, and you might just get lucky."

His expression didn’t falter. "I don’t need to flatter you to get what I want."

I rolled my eyes. "I take back what I said about your chivalry. Your arrogance is winning."

He leaned back, studying me with open amusement. "Pity. I was picturing our wedding... beachside."

"I hate sand."

"Mountains, then."

"Too cold."

"Vineyard?"

"Red wine gives me a headache."

He chuckled, just as the maître d’ appeared with a silver tray, setting down a bottle of vodka and two chilled glasses.

"Compliments of the chef."

I eyed Brennan warily. "That was suspiciously smooth."

He poured two shots with practiced ease. "Things have a way of working out for me."

I took the glass hesitantly, feeling its cool weight in my palm. "Must be nice. I have no idea what that’s like."

He grinned. "The trick is to relax."

"That might work for you, but you’re a wealthy, attractive giant of a man in a world designed to cater to your every need. Try being a five-foot-three woman earning sixty grand a year selling industrial plastic products and see how often things ‘just work out.’"

His eyes glinted with something unreadable. "Careful, or you might just find yourself getting lucky."

I stifled a surprised laugh, regaining control of my expression. "So, tell me about yourself. All of this feels staged."

"Who do you think I am?" he countered smoothly.

"I have no idea. Hopefully not an ax murderer?"

He feigned offense. "Of course not. Axes are far too messy."

He held a straight face just long enough for my heart to plummet before breaking into a smile. I scoffed. "You’ll scare women off with jokes like that."

"Who says I was joking?"

"That’ll scare them off too."

"No one is dying tonight, Vivian."

"What a relief. Though, honestly, the bar for these dates is that low."

"How many disastrous setups have you been on?"

I ticked them off on my fingers. "Let’s see... the classic ‘guy was married,’ ‘guy was drunk before appetizers,’ ‘guy was broke and expected me to pay’..."

He nodded solemnly. "Tales as old as time."

"The guy who shared a bed with his grandmother was definitely the strangest of the bunch."

Brennan leaned in, his gaze locking onto mine. Up close, he was even more captivating. His eyes shimmered like a dance of light on water, and his soft, kissable lips seemed out of place on such a masculine face.

"I’m like no one you’ve ever met, Vivian," he murmured, voice low, deliberate. "I promise you that."

A shiver crawled down my spine. Then, just as quickly as the moment arrived, it passed, swallowed by the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses around us. Fidgeting, I grabbed my menu as a shield.

"So, what’s good here? I’ve never had Irish food before, but I’m starving."

As if on cue, a waitress appeared, her gaze flickering nervously toward Brennan.

"We’ll take one of everything," he ordered.

My jaw dropped. "You really don’t need to—"

"And two whiskeys."

The waitress scurried away, leaving me dumbfounded. "That’s a lot of food. I’m a cheap date, I promise."

He tilted his head, amused. "Then you should value yourself higher."

I blinked. "I said I was a cheap date, not a pathetic one."

"Did I offend you, Vivian?"

"No, I just—" I scowled, torn between annoyance and intrigue. He was a force of nature, bulldozing through social conventions without a care.

"You pronounced that dish perfectly. Are you Irish?"

"Born and bred. My family moved here when I was four."

I asked about his family, but his response was so polished, so vague, that I almost forgot I had even asked. He leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. "What about your family?"

"Uh, no family to speak of. Dad was never in the picture. Haven’t seen my mom or brother in a long time. We just didn’t connect, I guess."

I glanced at my shot glass, eager to shift the conversation. "Are we drinking this or just admiring it?"

Brennan chuckled. "We can’t let good vodka go to waste. What shall we toast to?"

"You’re the smooth talker. You decide."

He lifted his glass, smirking. "To the last first date we’ll ever go on."

I clinked my glass against his and downed the shot. The vodka burned on the way down, but a pleasant chill spread through me. Brennan licked his lips, a quick, seductive flick of his tongue.

"Good, no?"

"It’ll do."

He laughed, but before he could respond, his phone vibrated. His expression darkened. "Excuse me for a moment. Don’t move."

He strode out, leaving me with my empty shot glass, wondering if his toast was more than just a joke. Then, footsteps approached. I turned, expecting him.

Instead, a disheveled man plopped into the booth, grumbling, "You ordered without me? Rude, but I’ll let it slide."

I stared, stunned. "Sorry… what?"

He slid his ID across the table. The name 'Brennan Garcia' stared back at me.

My heart pounded as I turned to see the real Brennan standing nearby, watching.

"If he’s Brennan..." My voice wavered. "Then who are you?"