The polished floor seemed to stretch into an impossible distance as Sasha traversed the final few steps toward the window table. The high-altitude hush of the Observatory Bar & Grill only amplified the sound of her own heartbeat, a frantic, disorganized drumbeat beneath the sophisticated exterior.
Luca Meyer looked up.
His head lifted with the slow, controlled motion of a predator who has already spotted his prey but is in no rush. He had been simply waiting, gazing out at the Dubai Marina spread below them, a glittering tapestry of lights and water that seemed insignificant compared to the singular, focused intensity of his eyes when they met hers.
Sasha's carefully constructed professional armor, the one Kavya had helped her meticulously polish, threatened to shatter. In the office, she was his direct report, she was the one who always stood when he entered the room. It was an unspoken law of their corporate ecosystem. But here, he put his phone aside and stood up.
The simple, gentlemanly gesture felt like a cosmic betrayal of their power dynamic.
She stopped short of the table, momentarily frozen by the sight of him. He was dressed in a dark, tailored blazer that wasn't a suit jacket. It was a casual refinement that only cost a small fortune. He looked less like the intimidating CEO and more like a man whose effortless success meant he never had to rush.
He moved behind her chair, pulling it back slightly, a silent, authoritative invitation to be seated. The action, so simple and polite, was what made it unbearably awkward. This was her Boss, a man whose approval she desperately needed for a multi-million dirham project, performing the role of a Perfect Date.
Sasha felt a flush creep up her neck. She struggled to keep the awkwardness from distorting her expression, resorting to a stiff, almost painful neutrality.
"You... you don't have to, Boss" she stammered, the honorific slipping out despite her internal scream to use his first name. She saw the minute twitch in his jaw, not annoyance, but perhaps resignation as he held the dark leather chair completely out for her.
His expression remained the usual, controlled neutral. There was no smile, not even a hint of manufactured warmth, but there was also none of the cold, impatient austerity she sometimes saw in boardroom meetings. He simply looked at her, waiting.
"Sit" he said, his voice a low, even command that was utterly devoid of malice but carried the unmistakable weight of someone used to being obeyed.
She nodded hesitantly, sinking into the plush chair as if it were a high-pressure interrogation seat. Her pencil skirt tightened uncomfortably as she adjusted her posture, trying to look poised. He returned to his side of the table, settling back and crossing one ankle over the other.
"Call me Luca. For now" he instructed, his eyes steady. The conditional phrase for now left a small, confusing crack in the corporate wall, suggesting this might, just might, be a temporary suspension of reality.
Before Sasha could formulate a response that was neither a stammering apology nor a formal acknowledgment, Luca gave a slight, almost imperceptible gesture to the waiter hovering nearby. The waiter instantly materialized.
"Water, still or sparkling?" Luca asked, directing the question to Sasha with professional brevity.
"Still, thank you" she managed.
He addressed the waiter. "We'll start with a still water and a glass of the house red for me. We need a few minutes for the menu."
As the waiter departed, the oppressive silence returned, broken only by the soft clinking of cutlery from distant tables. Sasha desperately sought a distraction, her eyes flitting from the menu to the view, finally settling on the linen napkin she began meticulously folding and unfolding.
"Look, Sasha.." Luca began, leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on the table. "There's no need to feel awkward. Just order what you want."
She nodded too quickly, forcing a small, tight smile. "Of course. I'm thinking... a salad. Maybe a light grilled fish."
A faint shadow of something.. amusement? recognition?, flickered in his eyes. "Didn't you have a slight disagreement with Sameer yesterday at the cafeteria over the last portion of the chicken kebab?"
Sasha froze, mid-fold of her napkin. The blood rushed to her face, a crimson wave washing away the last remnants of her poise. The chicken kebab incident. A minor, fiercely debated battle involving Sameer's insistence on a low-carb day and her absolute need for the savory, spicy protein fix.
"You... you didn't have to remember that," she mumbled, genuinely embarrassed. The thought of the CEO of Meyer Group recalling a trivial cafeteria squabble was Mortifying.
"Why not?" Luca asked, seemingly unperturbed. "It was a spirited debate. I admire your commitment to poultry. Now, stop punishing yourself with lettuce."
Panic fueled a decisive, sudden action. "Fine. I'll have the mushroom ravioli with the truffle cream sauce." She slapped the menu shut, avoiding his gaze, mentally cursing Kavya for this entire 'scouting mission' idea.
Luca gave his order, a perfectly composed steak, medium rare and leaned back as the waiter left. Sasha braced herself for the inevitable, gentle letting down.
"Sasha, so-.."
"Uhm," she interrupted quickly, unable to stand the drawn-out tension, "I know this is awkward. It's okay, Boss. Just say it.. this, this won't work. I don't have to feel more awkward than I already do." She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a strange mix of dread and expectation, ready for the professional, efficient dismissal.
Instead, Luca Meyer frowned. He slowly leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded her with a look of genuine perplexity.
"What do you mean, 'this won't work'?" he asked, his voice low and firm.
"H-huh?" Her carefully prepared mental script vanished.
"Yeah. You think I'm ugly? I'm not good enough? You think I'm a bad guy?" The questions were delivered without inflection, but they were absurd enough to throw her completely off balance.
"Say why this doesn't work," he insisted, his laser focus trained entirely on her, no longer the CEO scrutinizing a balance sheet, but a man demanding an explanation.
Sasha's survival instinct kicked in, and she leaned slightly over the table in a panic stricken attempt to create an invisible shield. "No. No, that's not what I meant. You are my Boss, Boss. I am just your employee.. So this might..." She trailed off, unable to articulate the disaster that was a boss-employee dating failure.
He sighed, the sound barely audible over the soft jazz music. "There wouldn't be this date if I were a person who is calculating professional life in a relationship, Sasha."
She stared at him, stunned into silence. He hadn't dismissed her, he hadn't even referenced the company policy handbook. He had simply made a clear, personal statement of intent. He wasn't treating this like an extension of the office, he was compartmentalizing it cleanly.
"It's okay if you hate the fact that I, your boss, am your date. I never wanted you to feel low or awkward. But just know that, I never had any problem with having a date with you."
Sasha realized she was holding her breath. She had spent the entire evening terrified that he was secretly judging her for leveraging the date for professional gain, or, worse, viewing her as an opportunistic employee. Instead, he was stating, plainly and simply, that he was present, by choice, and his mind wasn't in the boardroom.
A wave of strange, newfound interest washed over her. She knew her boss as a perfect human being, workaholic, disciplined, well mannered, rarely friendly, strict but never unkind. But this side of him.. calmly dissecting her emotional turmoil, offering validation while maintaining his neutral composure. God, why was it so... attractive?
The arrival of the food, her truffle pasta smelling decadently rich, his steak perfectly seared, ended the intense moment. The waiter placed the dishes and discreetly vanished.
"It's up to you whether to continue the date or not, but eat," he said, picking up his fork. "Just have a simple dinner." He didn't look guilty, or even annoyed. He simply looked hungry. He picked up the serving spoon and neatly served a portion of her pasta onto her plate, another tiny, unexpected domestic gesture.
"Do you want to talk about the project, Boss?" she asked, trying to find her footing on familiar ground, clutching at the professionalism she was losing.
He merely gave her a single, sharp look, a silent, intense look that clearly communicated: You better focus on the food.
Sasha immediately looked down and picked up her fork. They ate in a long, strained silence, occasionally punctuated by the metallic scrape of her fork against the porcelain as she tried to appear relaxed while her mind raced.
When they finished, Luca placed his napkin on the table and signaled for the check. He paid swiftly, efficiently, as if closing a large deal. He then stood up, the chair moving smoothly back into place.
"I'll drop you," he offered, the statement sounding less like a question and more like a logistical decision.
"No, thanks. I'll just take a taxi," she responded automatically, the habit of independence kicking in.
He gave a slight nod, accepting her answer without debate.
Sasha stood hesitantly, pulling her clutch tight to her chest. She had the exit strategy, the professional distance, but now she was the one suddenly debating whether to breach it. She saw his posture, the expectant patience and knew he was waiting for her to move, but she couldn't.
"What is it? Just speak" he said, reading the conflicting signals on her face with unnerving accuracy.
"Can we do this again?" she blurted out, the question escaping before her brain could veto it.
Seeing his confused, slightly raised eyebrow, she immediately plunged into a torrent of awkward explanation. "I mean... it's true that I'm awkward. I never thought of you like that. And I thought you might be thinking I have any hidden intentions that family setting this date... and I'm sorry if I ruined the date... yeah, I ruined it. And if it's okay... is it okay that we do this again?" she finished, her voice a mix of awkwardness and a sudden, hopeful expectation she couldn't suppress.
Luca Meyer looked at her, at her flushed cheeks, her intense, pleading eyes, the sheer, honest panic of her delivery. Slowly, a subtle tension around his lips eased. He suppressed a small smile, a genuine, private curve of the mouth that none of his employees had ever witnessed. It was brief, and almost painful in its unfamiliarity.
"Sure" he said, the single word a quiet agreement that held a promise of complexity. He gestured toward the restaurant exit. "So, now I can drop you?"
Sasha's face felt hot, but this time, the heat was mixed with relief and an undeniable, buzzing excitement.
"Now, I can take a taxi."
[To be continued]