Kamille’s POV

Friday night arrived quickly. I paced my room, uncertainty gnawing at me. Was this dinner with Chris, my son’s teacher, really necessary?

A message from an unknown number appeared on my phone:

Hey Ms. Kamille,

Seven p.m. at L&S Cuisine.

I’ll be here. Whatever you decide, I’ll understand.

Chris.

How did he get my home number? Then it hit me: my parents’ number was on school records, and I’d linked my personal line to the home line for emergencies.

After reading Chris’s message, I felt a mix of nervousness and determination. Dating anyone besides Zeke was unthinkable, but Chris seemed genuinely nice, despite a slightly unsettling look in his eyes.

Deciding to go, I chose a simple yet elegant gown, applied subtle makeup, and nodded in satisfaction at my reflection. I ordered an Uber and hurried downstairs. Nanny Dona was already in the living room with the children.

“Hey, Dona,” I said, trying to hide my rush. “Thank you for coming. I have to go; I’m running late.”

Nanny Dona smiled warmly. “Okay, Ms. Kamille. Have fun.”

I thanked her, dashed out, and jumped into the Uber. It was almost eight p.m. Would he still be there?

I arrived at the restaurant half-expecting to find Chris gone. The driver opened my door.

“Hey, Ms. Kamille.” Chris approached calmly.

“Hello, Mr. Chris,” I replied, relieved. “Thank you for waiting. I’m so sorry I’m late.”

He waved it off. “No problem. I’m just glad you made it.” His eyes twinkled. Relief washed over me.

The restaurant was sophisticated: soft golden lighting, elegant decor, tasteful artwork, and plush velvet curtains. It was a place for London's elite, requiring reservations. How could a kindergarten teacher afford this?

Chris pulled out my chair. “Thank you,” I said.

He smiled. “You’re welcome. I thought we’d go somewhere nice.”

“It’s amazing,” I replied.

“Good time to order?” Chris asked.

I nodded nervously. “Sure.” I scanned the menu. When the waiter arrived, Chris gestured for me to order first.

“I’ll have the seafood linguine, please.”

Chris hesitated. “I’ll just have the steak, medium-rare,” he said, apologetically.

I frowned. “Is everything okay?”

He smiled reassuringly. “Yeah, I’m fine. I have a seafood allergy.”

Guilt washed over me. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

He waved it off. “No need to apologize.”

“Well, I’ll cancel my order, too,” I said, wanting to be considerate.

He shook his head. “You don’t have to. I can eat steak while you enjoy your seafood.”

I shook my head firmly. “No, it’s fine. I want us to have the same meal.”

He smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

As we waited, I stole glances at Chris, noticing the sadness and ambiguity in his eyes. The waiter brought wine, and Chris poured us each a glass.

Taking a sip, I thought of Zeke—his touch, the warmth, our closeness in the elevator. I blushed.

Chris noticed my flushed cheeks. “Are you cold?” he asked, concerned.

I shook my head, touching my cheeks. “No, no, I’m not cold.”

“Are you sure? You look flushed,” he persisted.

My cheeks burned. “Um, maybe it’s the air,” I stammered.

“We could move,” he offered.

“No, no. I’m fine,” I replied.

He nodded, though skeptically. I forced a smile. Fuck! I mentally cursed myself for thinking of Zeke. Thankfully, the waiter arrived with our food.

“I hope you like it,” Chris said, noticing how little I was eating.

“Oh yes, I’m just a slow eater,” I replied.

Looking at him, I felt warmth. Despite knowing I had four children, he’d planned this special date. In this upscale restaurant, with a stunning view, I wondered how much effort and expense he’d gone to.

We ate in silence for a while before Chris asked, “What do you think about a picnic with the kids?”

“We’ve had a couple,” I replied, forgetting Chris didn’t know about our time in the States.

His surprise was evident. “You were in the States?”

I nodded. “Yeah, for a while. But I’m originally from here.”

“But you had the kids in the States?” he asked.

My eyes flickered, but I nodded, sensing his genuine curiosity. He quickly apologized, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

I reassured him, placing my hand on his arm. “It’s fine, Chris.”

He nodded. “I just want you to feel comfortable.”

I smiled. “I understand.”

“Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would,” he said, putting down his cutlery.

“I’m glad I did,” I replied, taking a sip of wine.

He said, “There’s something on your lips.” His tone was gentle.

I frowned. “What? Where?” I reached for a napkin.

Before I could find it, Chris’s hand gently wiped away a smudge. I expected the familiar sizzle I felt with Zeke, but I felt nothing—just contentment.

What the hell was I expecting?

I smiled faintly and mouthed a thank you. My phone rang, a welcome interruption. I fumbled to answer.