Olivia Westview
As the waiter cleared away our plates, the flickering candle between us cast a warm, intimate glow over the table.
“Your wine,” James said, his voice drawing me out of my thoughts.
“What?” I blinked, trying to refocus on the present.
“You’ve barely touched your wine. I thought you were a red wine enthusiast,” he teased lightly, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“I am,” I replied quickly, a bit too quickly. I lifted the glass again, taking a small sip, trying to hide how flustered I felt.
James watched me, his gaze steady, as if he could see right through my facade. “You seem...distracted,” he remarked, his tone gentle but probing.
“I’m just...thinking about work,” I lied, forcing a smile. I knew he didn’t believe me, but I wasn’t ready to admit the real reason for
