Brunch And Talks
I stared at the mirror.
The black and white dress hugged my waist like it was tailored just for me, flaring at the bottom in soft, scalloped waves that barely touched mid-thigh. The contrast made my skin look warmer, softer. I had let my hair fall freely—dark curls cascading over my shoulders, a few strands teasing the sides of my face. I didn’t bother with elaborate styling. It was too early to try too hard.
Still, I looked…nice.
I slipped off the heels I originally paired, replacing them with a simple pair of strappy sandals. Less drama, less noise. My feet thanked me immediately.
Grabbing my gloss, I dabbed a little on, then blinked slowly at my reflection.
“It’s just brunch,” I murmured.
Just brunch.
With Rowan Vaughn.
I sighed.
“This isn’t a date. Why do I have to look special. Wait it's not even special it's just some dress.”
Saying it out loud didn’t help. Not when my heart still pulled that ridiculous flutter trick like it was auditioning for a teen romance.
I adjusted the neckline slightly. The off-shoulder dipped perfectly, drawing attention I didn't ask for. I tugged at the hem, smoothed it down, and hummed under my breath, low and unsure.
"Nothing special," I told my reflection. “Just brunch with the man who forgot he married me, almost died in a plane crash, and now suddenly wants to talk.”
I rolled my eyes.
Yeah, totally normal.
I grabbed my bag, shoved my phone inside, and paused.
Maybe I should change.
Maybe I shouldn’t look this good for him.
But then again—maybe it wasn’t for him.
Maybe it was for me. For once.
I turned away before I could argue with myself again.
Time to go.
I stepped out of the room, the sound of my sandals echoing softly against the hallway tiles. Left or right?
I stood there, unsure, until I saw him.
Rowan.
Walking toward me from the opposite end of the corridor.
White dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, top two buttons undone. Navy trousers. Casual. Effortless. Like he didn’t even try—and still managed to look like the cover of a luxury magazine. His hand ran through his hair, messing it up just enough to make it worse for me.
The way his veins in his neck popped, his Adam Apple.
Fuck.
I looked away.
Calm. Calm. Calm.
But my heart was on some sort of caffeine high—thump thump thump.
Get it together, Remi.
He is not even that hot.
Okay maybe he is, so what.
I forced my eyes ahead, pretending to admire a random wall sconce like it was a museum artifact. Totally normal behavior.
Then I felt it—his hand on my back. Warm. Gentle. Steady.
I turned too fast.
And he was close.
"Everything alright?" he asked, brows raised slightly.
His voice was calm, easy.
I nodded, immediately regretting how stiff it was. “Yes.”
He tilted his head. “Your face is red.”
I coughed. “Must be the lighting.”
“Are you allergic to something?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
“No.” I cleared my throat again, pressing my hand to my cheek. “I’m fine.”
Lies.
I was blushing like I’d just won a prize in embarrassment. It was ridiculous.
His lips curved into a small smile. “Well…you look beautiful.”
My heart stuttered.
I blinked at him. “Oh. Thanks.”
That was the best I could do? “Oh. Thanks?”
I was a surgeon. A professional. A mother. Not some teenager twirling her hair at prom.
But here I was, nodding like a schoolgirl who’d just been noticed by the popular boy.
God.
He smiled again, slower this time. Not teasing. Just…warm.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and forced myself to breathe normally. “You look good too,” I muttered.
He smirked. “Just good?”
“Don’t push it, Vaughn.”
He laughed—and damn it, I almost smiled wider than I meant to.
Almost.
I turned slightly toward the direction he’d come from. “This way?”
He nodded. “Yeah. There’s a little spot by the patio. You’ll like it.”
I nodded, walking beside him, careful not to let our arms brush.
Because if they did, I might actually combust.
And he’d probably notice.
We turned a corner and stepped out onto a private patio. My breath caught—not because it was dramatic or movie-level extravagant—but because it was peaceful. The kind of peace you didn’t realize you needed until you were right in it.
White linen draped a small round table under a pergola of tangled ivy and soft fairy lights. There were two settings, and a gentle breeze floated through, rustling the leaves above us. A waiter stood nearby, nodding politely before stepping away.
“This is… nice,” I said quietly, taking it all in.
Rowan pulled out a chair for me. “Don’t look so surprised.”
I gave him a look as I sat. “I expected… I don’t know. More gold. More power plays. Less serenity.”
He grinned, taking the seat across from me. “Power brunches are reserved for weekdays.”
A leather-bound menu was placed in front of me. I opened it and blinked. “What on earth…”
He watched me, amused. “Too much?”
I tilted the menu to show him. “What is... ‘Pain Perdu au Lait d’Amande’?”
Rowan bit back a laugh. “French toast. With almond milk.”
I flipped the page. “And ‘Oeufs en Cocotte’?”
“Baked eggs. With herbs. In tiny ceramic bowls.”
I gave him a long, suspicious look. “So basically, brunch food. Just... in couture.”
“Pretty much. Let's just say in French.”
I closed the menu, shaking my head. “I thought we were getting something special.”
Rowan leaned forward. “It is special. My grandmother insists anything worth doing should be done with detail—even breakfast. She’s the reason the menus read like they came out of a Parisian culinary school.”
“Lady Isolde, right?” I asked, resting my elbow on the table.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Tell me more,” I said, eyes narrowing playfully. “I want to know all her secrets. So I can tease her properly.”
Rowan chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “That’s dangerous.”
“I’m curious.”
“She’s sharp,” he said, a little pride slipping into his voice. “Raised in Monaco. Married into the Vaughn name. She has this way of knowing what you’re thinking before you do.”
I grinned. “So she’s psychic? How come she never tried it with me?”
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