Chapter 14 - THE SECOND DINNER
Dwayne did not call Addison the day he was released.
Or the second.
He waited one week.
Not because he was playing games.
Because his therapist told him impulsive intensity was not romance.
Dwayne hated therapy.
Unfortunately, therapy was often correct.
He called Friday.
“Lynwood.”
“Still answering like an accountant.”
Silence.
Then:
“Dwayne.”
“Dinner?”
“You waited seven days.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To prove I could.”
She laughed.
“Seven-thirty.”
“L’Aura?”
“No.”
“Good.”
They met at a small Italian restaurant with paper menus and no sommelier.
Addison wore jeans.
Black sweater.
Glasses.
Hair down.
Dwayne liked this version more than the Tom Ford dress.
That realization surprised him.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Poorly.”
“Yes.”
They ordered pasta.
No bet.
No bodyguards at the table.
No criminal sit-down.
Just two people with too much history.
Addison asked:
“How is Elias?”
“Annoying.”
“Margaret?”
“More annoying.”
“Celeste?”
“In Montreal.”
“Nathan says hi.”
“He still hates me?”
“Less efficiently.”
Progress.
Then silence.
Dwayne asked:
“Why did you write?”
Addison considered.
“Because the man who entered prison wasn’t the man who invited me to L’Aura.”
“That sounds generous.”
“It isn’t.”
Her eyes held his.
“The old Dwayne believed attention was power. The new one seems to understand attention is responsibility.”
He swallowed.
“And which one do you like?”
She smiled slightly.
“Dangerous question.”
“I’m trying honesty.”
“Keep trying.”
Dinner became two hours.
Then three.
He walked her to her car.
No touching.
At the door she said:
“You can ask.”
Dwayne frowned.
“Ask what?”
She almost smiled.
“For a second date.”
He did.
“Yes.”
Second date became fifth.
Then fifteenth.
Slow.
Terrifyingly normal.
Dwayne learned Addison collected vintage fountain pens.
She learned he secretly hated jazz.
He confessed he had never enjoyed scotch.
He drank it because Vincent did.
She laughed for an unacceptable amount of time.
One night, six months later, Dwayne visited her office.
Paper clips still arranged in the top-right drawer.
He noticed.
“Some things survive.”
“Yes.”
Then he saw the framed photograph on her desk.
Nathan.
Addison.
Elias.
Margaret.
And, unexpectedly, Dwayne.
A group picture from Nathan’s birthday.
He pointed.
“I’m in the family photo.”
“Don’t get excited.”
“Too late.”
Then Addison handed him a file.
“What?”
“Rourke waterfront trust.”
His expression tightened.
“I thought we killed that.”
“We did.”
“Then?”
“I dissolved the marriage clause legally.”
He stared.
“So nobody can use it again.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She smiled.
“Also, I transferred my voting rights into a public redevelopment trust.”
Dwayne blinked.
“You gave away billions in future control?”
“I kept enough money.”
“How much?”
“Rude.”
“Fair.”
She leaned against the desk.
“The rest will fund affordable housing and dock-worker injury programs.”
Dwayne looked at her.
“You’re terrifying.”
“I know.”
Then he asked:
“Addison.”
“Yes?”
“Can I kiss you?”
Her expression softened.
“Yes.”
He did.
No bet.
No audience.
May you like
No power game.
And for the first time, Dwayne Cross understood why asking felt better than taking.
