RED LIPS, CURLED LASHES, and just a touch of mascara. Dark brown hair and matching eyes from both my mom's Chinese heritage and my dad's European ancestry. Pale skin from my mother's constant warnings to wear sunscreen that I can never really shake off. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and for the first time in weeks, all I feel is anticipation.

Not anxiety, not fear, not a gut-wrenching frisson of panic—just pure, unadulterated excitement. I'm looking forward to my first date as a newly single girl tonight. And I refuse to let anyone—not even Lucas, my cheating ex-boyfriend who apparently can't take a hint because he won't stop calling—take that away from me. As if on cue, my phone buzzes once and then goes to silent, since I blocked his number.

I flip over the phone to check for any other notifications, and a text greets me from my Tinder date. I've booked a table at Cavalli's for two. 8 o'clock. I'll pick you up in half an hour. Yes, that dating app. A few months ago, I was desperate, and my friends signed me up. I didn't think I would get much use out of it unless I wanted to garner a collection of unsavoury pictures from strange men, but it turns out that there is life after a devastating breakup. It comes in the form of finding possibly the only decent guy on a whole plethora of weirdos, jerks, and perverts in the proverbial sea of men called a dating app: Antonio Cavalli.

From the internet-stalking that I have done on him, I found out that he quite literally checks my (very few, to admit) boxes for a romantic partner, which are: a guy who is financially secure, spiritually mature, and taller than me when I wear heels. And I wear some pretty high heels.

After all, it isn't like I have the best luck with men. Lucas, who I was dating since senior year of freaking high school, brutally cut things off with me by inviting me over to his house and forgetting to mention that he had company. A very female, very naked kind of company, in his bed. Even though he claimed to be Christian like me, and saving himself for marriage--that was what really broke my trust. That was not my idea of a fun Friday night.

"But this will be," I say to myself, touching the cross-shaped pendant at my throat. "It has to be."

Great, Christina. Now, you're talking to yourself.

Oh, well. If I can't talk to myself, there is one person who I can always talk to: God. And so I say a quick prayer before I gather my stuff to head out.

Heavenly Father, please let me have a good date tonight. I pray that You would bless the conversations that we have and that You would help me to trust my gut and see if this man is a good person or not, but more importantly if he is Your disciple. I pray that we would get there safely and just have a fun time. In Your Son's precious name, Amen.

When I look up, I see the time. It's already seven-thirty, so I quickly grab my keys, phone, a tube of lipstick and packet of Kleenex, and shove them into my black, glittery clutch. Then, I add a canister of pepper spray for good measure, in case it goes sour and I get catfished. With one last once-over towards the outfit that I was agonizing about for an hour, but finally settled on (a black dress that was fitted but classy, and nude pumps), I make my way to the door. Maybe it's silly, but I feel like Cinderella, waiting for a carriage to take her to the ball.

Yep. You've definitely been watching too many Disney movies, Christina. There is no Prince Charming ready to sweep you off your feet.

The doorbell rings. I jump up to answer it and I almost trip in the Louboutin heels that are necessary to make me a full five-foot-nine instead of my average height of five-foot-five. A splurge, but worth it for this date.

"I'm coming!" I call out, taking hurried steps to the door. Opening it, a rush of cold air sends a shiver down my spine... but not as much as the very tall man holding a bouquet of roses and standing on my welcome mat does. He's insanely tall, definitely over six feet, with dark hair that curls slightly, wearing an actual suit. I can't help but compare him to Lucas's five-foot-ten frame, his rumpled jeans and tee shirts, maybe a sport jacket if he was feeling fancy. He never dressed like this, not even for our first date.

"Hi, Christina," he says, stepping inside my little apartment. His grey gaze lights on the framed pictures, the neat stack of mail on the entry table, and the row of hooks half-filled with jackets by my door, before finally landing on me. My name has never sounded so good in anyone's mouth. "It's good to see you in person. You look exquisite."

"Antonio. I could say the same for you," I reply, taking the flowers from him and holding them to my nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the petals. My heart thuds at the compliment. "These are beautiful! Thank you. I'll just... go put them in water."

He follows me into my small kitchenette (pathetically consisting of one sink, a microwave, hot plate, and minifridge) and leans against the counter while I find a vase. "This is a nice place."

I cringe in embarrassment at my less-than-stellar surroundings as I turn on the tap and fill a ceramic vase that a friend made for me in a pottery class. "You don't need to lie and be polite. This apartment is really all I can afford, because, you know, student loans..."

My voice trails off as I see him reach out and trace a finger over the painting on the wall, making my heart lurch. The already-minuscule apartment feels even smaller with him in it, all six-foot-something of him taking up a heck of a lot more space than I do. I don't think there's enough air in the room.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. We all have to start somewhere, right?" He's pivoted away from the artwork and now looks directly at me, grey eyes piercing into mine.

I suppress a gulp and nod, before looking down and realizing that the vase is now overflowing. Oops. "Mm-hmm. I'm just gonna... put this somewhere."

His eyes stay on me the whole time. I feel my hands tremble slightly, and mentally I shake my head at myself. All this over one little look? It's not as though he touched me or anything. But there's something raw and intense and genuine about that expression, something that speaks of dropped guards and authenticity and the painful, real truth. Then I shake my head for real. It really has been too long since I've been on a date. It's making me crazy.

"So." He stands up straight, no longer leaning on my counter, and offers me his arm. "Let's go."

I tuck my hand into the crook of his elbow, repressing a grin that threatens to overtake my whole face. What a gentleman. "Let's."

We take the stairs down to the apartment building's lobby because the elevators are being repaired (they have been under repair since I moved in six months ago, but I don't tell him that) and step outside. From the appearance of his expensive-looking suit that is no doubt a brand like Ted Baker or even Armani, I expect him to have a nice car. An Audi or a Lexus, maybe. Something that doesn't fit into this working-class neighbourhood.

I sure as heck don't expect the limo that pulls up to us—or the driver that rolls down the tinted window and says, "Mr. Cavalli. Miss Martell."

Biting my lip to keep a squeal from escaping my throat, I get into the backseat through the door that Antonio opens for me before sitting next to me. Dumb, maybe, but I really do feel like Cinderella.

"Holy crap..." I breathe. "You own this?"

His face is impassive. Unreadable. "No, I stole it. We're going for a joyride."

I laugh awkwardly. "This is really nice. It must have cost a fortune." I pause, hoping I don't sound like a gold-digger. "So, what do you do to afford all this?"

"Most of it is inherited, but I do have a... rather lucrative side business that keeps me busy." He smiles at me, brilliantly charming and blindingly attractive.

My heart squeezes. I think my body has reordered its insides itself, so that it's able to live off of one of his smiles alone. "Day-trading?" I guess out loud.

Antonio shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. I stop breathing. I don't think I believed in actual physical chemistry until this very moment. I think I have been settling for half-hearted, chaste kisses and awkward handholds until right now, when one look from him leaves me literally weak in the knees.

"Keep guessing what my job is, and we might leave this date having talked about nothing else. Is that what you want?" There's a subtle coldness, a kind of brick wall that has gone up with those words.

I smooth my hands over the skirt of my dress and look down. Barely five minutes into our date and I'm already messing up. "Apologies." Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe he's a plumber. "So..."

"Apology accepted. Enough about me, then. What do you do?" He cuts in swiftly.

"I just graduated, so I'm actually working part time at a grocery story right now. If you want a discount on cereal or toilet paper, I'm your girl." I wince slightly at my words. He looks like he doesn't shop for discounted anything. And toilet paper? Really?

He smiles again, more subtle than the first. Like he knows my thoughts and is reassuring me. "I'll keep that in mind."

The rest of the conversation goes more smoothly until we get out of the limousine and step out onto the sidewalk in front of Cavalli's, the newest and trendiest restaurant in New York City.

The name jumps out at me.

"You're a restauranteur?" I wonder, turning from the brightly-lit sign to him. I try to look him in the eye, but even in heels I have to look up and he has to bend his neck slightly for it to happen.

"My brother owns this place," he replies, not quite meeting my gaze. I try to brush it off as the height difference. "Come on, Christina."

He holds the door for me, and my heels click as I walk inside.

VELVET ARMCHAIRS AND MAHOGANY booths are clustered around a central, circular bar. The noises of people chatting and laughing filter towards me, quiet strains of jazz music interwoven with their voices. My stomach growls softly, and I realize I haven't eaten since my lunch break at work, which was noon—eight hours ago. Pasta is heaped on people's china plates, the steam rising and delicious aromas drifting over to us.

"Mr. Cavalli," a pretty brunette hostess greets us. She's clearly Italian, with golden skin and glossy dark hair that rivals mine in length. "Table for two, right?"

He nods, putting a hand on the small of my back. Something vital inside my body starts to combust.

"Here are your menus, and your server will be with you shortly." She smiles and hands us two leather-bound menus.

"Thank you, Monica." He takes both menus from her, setting them on the table.

I freeze momentarily—he knows the hostess's name? Then, as she walks away, I realize she's got a name-tag pinned to her black blouse, and my shoulders fall in relaxation.

"So," he says, turning to me. "What do you want to eat?"

"What do you recommend?" I throw back. First-date jitters are a real thing, and they flutter in my stomach right now, wrecking my newfound appetite.

"Everything here is good."

He slides me a menu, and I take it, white-knuckling the embossed leather to keep my hands from shaking again. Why am I so nervous? I have no freaking idea. God, help me.

"Maybe you're just saying that because your brother owns the place," I counter, a smile tugging at my lips.

"I would say it whether or not he did," he replies, flipping open the menu. "Do you like seafood?"

"I love seafood," I say brightly, looking at the array of options and trying to ignore the prices. Since he pulled up in a limo, I'm pretty sure he can afford dinner for two here.

"Then, I recommend the shrimp risotto," he says firmly. "Paired with a white wine."

I shake my head immediately, tendrils of my hair escaping from their tight bun. "I don't drink."

He shrugs. "Then neither will I."

Just like that. Is it so easy?

But sooner or later, the voice of doubt and insecurity reminds me, he'll get sick of it. He'll look for a girl who's more 'fun' and can let loose a little. Just like Lucas...

I bite my lip, looking down at my menu. Unexpectedly, he reaches out and tilts my chin up. "Christina, tell me what's wrong."

It's a commanding tone. Stern. It puts me at ease, a wave of security washing over me. "It's..." Nothing, I should say. But I don't. "I recently went through a bad breakup. But I'm pretty sure it goes against the etiquette of a first date to talk about it."

"Who said anything about etiquette?" Something in those charcoal eyes ensnares me, makes me think—no, know—that he's not one for etiquette, for social conventions, for playing by the rules.

"He cheated on me," I blurt out, words in a tumble of breath and sighs. "That's all."

"He betrayed your trust and hurt you immeasurably," Antonio says quietly, firmly. "That's not all."

"Can I take your orders?" The waiter comes at the worst possible time.

"The lady will have the shrimp risotto, and a lamb ragout for me please." He folds both menus shut and passes them to the waiter, never breaking eye contact with me.

This feels like more than a first date. It feels like the beginning of a lot of things.

I sip my water. "I—how can you know that?"

"I've been betrayed before," he states simply. "It's not a pleasant sensation."

"No," I reply softly. "No, not at all."

The food comes after we change the conversation to a more lighthearted topic. I learn that he's adopted and has multiple siblings. He still doesn't give me more than hints at what his career is. I share about my boring retail job and the annoying customers that pass through the Co-op. Conversation flows as freely as the wine I see others drinking, and by the time the waiter brings us dessert menus it feels like I've known him forever.

"Chocolate cake or lemon meringue pie?" I put my hand on my chin philosophically, like this is the hardest dilemma in the world.

"Get—" He's interrupted by sudden shouts and a door slamming open.

"Hands where I can see them!" A suited man wielding a gun calls out. I squint, my heart pounding so loud I can hear my pulse roaring in my ears, and see a bulletproof vest that says... "DEA!"

DEA? I frown. What does that stand for?

"Drug Enforcement Administration," Antonio murmurs to me, reaching for my hand before pulling away. He stands up and motions for me to do the same. "Come here."

In my panicked, dazed state, I obey. "What are you doing?"

"Do you trust me, sweetheart?"

A thousand voices scream at each other in my mind. But God's is the loudest: I am in control. Go with him.

I nod, just once. He seizes my hand and we start running.