Outside the Apron

Leo's POV

At 6:10 PM, I was standing outside *The Daily Grind*, pulling my leather jacket over my shoulders. For the first time in two years, I hadn't spent the final ten minutes of my shift obsessing over the espresso machine's water pressure. I was obsessing over my hair in the reflection of the pastry case.

"Don't do anything stupid," Jax had warned me as I locked up. "She wears shoes that cost more than my rent, Leo. Take her somewhere where they don't serve food on paper plates."

I knew he was just looking out for me, but standing on the sidewalk, my chest felt tight with nerves. *What does a guy making hourly wages talk about with a woman who designs luxury fashion?*

Right at 6:15 PM, a sleek, matte-black town car pulled up to the curb. The tinted passenger window rolled down, and Sienna leaned toward the opening, her hazel eyes sparkling under the city streetlights. She had traded her structured green blazer for a softer, off-the-shoulder cream sweater, though she still looked entirely out of my league.

"Get in," she smiled, a playful edge to her voice.

I opened the door and slid into the leather interior. It smelled like expensive perfume and clean cedar. "Wow. Is this how you normally travel, or are you just trying to make me feel inadequate?"

Sienna laughed, leaning back against the seat as the driver pulled into the heavy evening traffic. "It's a company car, courtesy of a very successful investor meeting. So tonight, we are celebrating on their dime. Where are we going, Mr. Vance? I told the driver you’d give directions."

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Well, I was going to suggest a hidden little taco spot down by the pier. But seeing the leather seats... I can change the plan if you want something more upscale."

Sienna turned her whole body to face me, a soft, incredibly genuine expression on her face. "Leo, I spend five nights a week at formal dinners eating food I can't pronounce with people I don't like. Please take me to the taco spot."

The tension in my shoulders instantly melted. "Tacos it is."

Sienna's POV

The "taco spot" was a tiny, brightly painted shack tucked between a surf shop and a marina. String lights danced overhead in the salty evening breeze, and the air smelled faintly of fried fish and cilantro. There were no white tablecloths, no waiters in suits—just wooden picnic tables and the sound of waves lapping against the docks.

It was absolutely perfect.

"Two spicy shrimp, two carnitas, and two local beers," Leo told the guy at the window, paying in cash before I could even reach for my handbag.

"Hey, I said we were celebrating on my company's dime," I protested, nudging him with my elbow as we took a seat at a table overlooking the water.

"The coffee is on your dime. The first date is on mine," Leo said smoothly, handing me a cold bottle. He tapped his glass against mine. "To a successful investor meeting."

"To a successful meeting," I echoed, taking a sip.

As we ate, the gap between our worlds completely evaporated. Leo didn't ask me about my profit margins, my manufacturing timelines, or who I was wearing. Instead, he asked me *why* I loved design. He listened with rapt attention as I talked about the feeling of transforming a flat piece of silk into something that made a person feel invincible.

In return, I learned about him. He had taken over the café management to help out an old family friend, he loved restoring vintage vinyl records, and he had a ridiculously sharp, dry sense of humor that had me laughing so hard my ribs ached. He was completely comfortable in his own skin, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was sitting next to a woman who lived in a completely different financial bracket.

By the time we finished eating, the temperature had dropped. I shivered slightly, crossing my arms.

Before I could even say a word, Leo was up. He slipped off his heavy leather jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It was warm from his body, smelling of espresso, fresh air, and rich leather.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low, his hazel eyes looking down at me with intense warmth.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked up at him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was standing. "Much better," I whispered.

He didn't step back. Instead, his hand gently brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jawline for a fraction of a second. The tension between us was suddenly thick, sweet, and heavy.

"Come on," he murmured, offering me his hand. "Let's walk you back to your car."

I took his hand, our fingers intertwining perfectly, realizing with terrifying clarity that a simple fifteen-minute morning routine was no longer going to be enough.

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