Her Friend Set The Poor Waitress Up On A Blind Date— Mins Later, The Mafia Boss Entered With His Dog

Nathaniel turned back toward the table, the terrifying coldness in his demeanor vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a quiet, steady gentleness as he looked down at Wren.

"I apologize for the interruption," he said, pulling his chair back out and sitting down as if nothing had happened. "Some people don't understand boundaries."

Wren sat frozen for three long seconds, her mind reeling through everything that had just transpired. The blind date, the dog, the alleyway, the name Burroughs, and the terrifying display of absolute power she had just witnessed firsthand.

"You're Nathaniel Burroughs," she whispered, the words tasting strange on her tongue.

"Nathaniel is fine," he replied simply.

"You own half the shipping lines in New England," she continued, her voice rising slightly with a mixture of disbelief and sudden, defensive anger. "You live in a fortress on the cliffs, and your family name is basically royalty in this state. Why are you sitting in a mid-tier restaurant eating sea bass across from a girl who smells like coffee grounds and owes forty grand to Providence General?"

Nathaniel picked up his water glass, turning it slowly between his fingers before setting it back down.

"Because," he said, looking straight into her eyes, "for the last four days, every person who came near me wanted something. My investors wanted assurances. The police wanted statements. My board wanted damage control. And you..."

He paused, a faint, genuine warmth reaching his slate-gray eyes.

"You just gave a starving dog a bowl of water and didn't ask for a receipt."

Wren stared at him, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to stand up, rip off her apron, throw it in his face, and walk out into the cold night air where things made sense. But as she looked down at the mastiff—now resting his heavy head back across her foot with a contented sigh—she realized that the ground beneath her feet had already shifted, and there was no going back to the way things were twenty minutes ago.

"My shift ended an hour ago, Nathaniel," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, serious register.

"I know," he replied.

"And I don't do charity."

"Good," Nathaniel said, a faint smile touching his lips. "Because I wasn't offering charity. I was offering a conversation."

Wren reached down, her fingers brushing against the thick, warm fur of the mastiff’s neck. She felt the heavy, rhythmic beat of the dog's pulse—and for the first time in three years, the cold anchor of debt and exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders felt just a little bit lighter.

"Ask your question, then," Wren said, lifting her chin. "You said I could ask anything. Now it's my turn."

Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "Ask away."