Chapter 410 - 410: The Perfect Night! [FIXED!][16/06!]

The champagne was gone. So was the wine and the dessert wine. And the two glasses of port that Kyle had ordered because Jane made a joke about "needing something warm" and the waiter looked horrified.

Kyle wasn't drunk. He had learned years ago how to hold his liquor—a survival skill, not a party trick. He was tipsy, maybe. Loose around the edges. But his mind stayed sharp, watching Jane with something close to wonder.

Jane, on the other hand, was gone.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were glassy. She laughed at everything—the way the candle flickered, the shape of a bread roll, the serious face of the sommelier who had just described a wine as "having notes of melancholy."

"Melancholy!" Jane repeated, slapping the table. "Who tastes a grape and thinks, 'Ah yes, sadness'?"

Kyle grinned. "Maybe it's a sad grape."

"It's a grape, Kyle. It doesn't have feelings," Jane fired back with a chuckle, not caring about anyone around them. She no longer was being self-conscious.

"It might. We don't know everything!" Kyle fired back, matching her energy.

Jane dissolved into giggles, burying her face in her hands. The couple at the next table glanced over—not annoyed, just amused. Two elderly women near the window were openly watching, their forks paused mid-air.

"We're turning heads," Kyle thought. "And Jane isn't even paying attention anymore."

They had been at it for two hours. Course after course—tasting menu, then extra orders, then things Jane pointed at on the menu just because the names sounded funny. Kyle had stopped looking at prices three bottles ago. The waiter had stopped bringing checks. At this point, they were just eating.

And sharing as they did but there was nothing standing in their way for now in terms of being self-conscious even though Kyle never cared about such settings to begin with.

Every plate became communal. Kyle would take a bite of Jane's lamb, she would steal his potatoes. They swapped plates so often that the waiter started bringing duplicates, just to keep up.

"It's called a flavor journey," Jane announced, waving a forkful of something green. "You wouldn't understand."

"I understand that you just ate my dessert."

"That wasn't yours. That was ours." Jane countered. Kyle knew he stood no chance when it came to eating, Jane was in a league of her own.

"Jane, I didn't get a single bite," Kyle laughed his ass off.

She looked down at the empty plate, then back at him. "Well. That's your fault for being slow." Jane's mouth had gotten sharper, the way she spoke to him made him wonder where this lady was hiding all along.

Kyle laughed—loud enough that the elderly women smiled.

By the tenth course, Jane had stopped using her inside voice.

"And then," she said, her words starting to blur at the edges, "and then the cat just sat there. Like it owned the couch, which technically, it did. Because it was his couch but still."

Kyle nodded seriously. "Outrageous."

"Right?" Jane took a long sip of wine. "You get it. You always get it."

"That is because I can read your mind," Kyle closed his eyes with his hands at his temple, making exaggerated gestures.

She set her glass down and fixed him with a bleary stare. "Kyle."

"Yes baby," Kyle responded.

"I could run faster than you," Jane said out of the blue, it was so random.

He blinked. "What?"

"Running. I'm faster. I could beat you in a race!" Jane was filled with confidence, even the way she spoke conveyed that.

Kyle leaned back, studying her. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was falling out of its careful arrangement, and she had a smear of sauce on her chin. She was, without question, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"You're drunk," he said the most obvious thing in the world.

"And these are my sober thoughts!" Jane fired back right away.

"You can't eve run in that skirt," Kyle chuckled as he pointed it out.

"Watch me," Kyle fired back at her.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "You want to race? Right now?"

Jane's eyes widened, like she hadn't expected him to take her seriously. But her drunk brain was already committed.

"Yes," she said. "Right now. Outside. Unless you're scared," Jane was smug.

"In the parking lot?" Kyle wanted to be sure they were on the same page.

Jane giggled—a high, silly sound. "There's a parking lot?"

"Every restaurant has a parking lot."

"That's not true."

"Do you think cars park in the air?"

She squinted at him, trying to decide if he was joking. He wasn't.

"Fine," she said. "But when I win, you have to admit I'm the fastest."

"And when I win?"

"You won't."

Kyle smiled. "Confident, I likey!"

The bill arrived shortly after.

Kyle glanced at it—£18,750. They had essentially ordered everything on the menu, plus bottles that cost more than most people's rent. He pulled out his black card without flinching.

[Ding!]

The cyan screen flickered across his vision.

[Spent $23,800. 50X Critical Hit! Earned $1,190,000!]

[The money has been transferred to account XXX-XXX-XXX.]

[Spent a ridiculous amount on a beautiful lady!]

Kyle smiled and blinked the screen away. The system approved.

"Come on, princess," he said, standing and offering his arm. "Let's go embarrass ourselves."

Jane took it, wobbling slightly. "We're not embarrassing ourselves. We're racing!"

"That's what drunk people always say."

"Drunk people are wise then."

They walked through the restaurant, past the amused elderly women, past the sommelier who now looked genuinely concerned, toward the exit. The staff watched them go with a mixture of relief and affection.

Outside, the night air hit them like a cold splash. Jane shivered, then laughed.

"It's cold," Jane couldn't hide her discomfort and without a second thought, Kyle placed his blazer around her.

Kyle led her around the side of the building to a small parking lot—empty except for a few staff cars and a delivery van. The pavement was rough, lit by a single buzzing streetlight.

"Perfect," Kyle said.

Jane looked at the lot, then at her skirt, then at her heels.

"I didn't think this through."

"Is someone scared?" Kyle threw her words right back at her.

She swatted his arm. "Rude."

Kyle spotted two kitchen workers standing near the back door, smoking. They were young—early twenties, aprons still tied around their waists.

"Hey," Kyle called. "You two want to make some money?"

The workers exchanged glances. One shrugged.

Kyle pulled out his wallet and handed each of them a hundred-pound note. "Judge our race. Tell us who wins."

The taller worker—a man with kind eyes and a crooked smile—looked at the money, then at Kyle, then at Jane. "You're racing? In heels?"

"I'm a superhero!," Jane said, kicking off her shoes.

The shorter worker laughed. "This I have to see."

-

They lined up at one end of the parking lot. Jane had bunched her skirt up slightly—not indecent, just practical. Her bare feet were pale against the dark pavement. Kyle stood beside her, stretching his arms like he was about to run a marathon.

"On three," the tall worker said. "One... two... THREE!"

Jane took off.

She wasn't fast. The skirt hindered her, and her coordination was shot. But she ran with everything she had, her arms pumping, her hair flying, her face split in a wild grin.

Kyle ran too.

He ran fast—faster than her, easily. He pulled ahead within seconds, his longer legs eating up the pavement. The workers cheered.

And then Kyle stumbled.

It was theatrical—a exaggerated trip, his foot catching on nothing, his body lurching forward. He hit the ground with a grunt and stayed there.

"Kyle!" Jane called, still running.

He waved a hand. "I'm fine!"

Jane didn't stop. She crossed the makeshift finish line—a chalk mark the workers had drawn—and spun around, laughing.

"I won!" she shouted. "I actually won!"

The tall worker raised his hand. "Winner!"

The short worker was already walking toward Kyle, who was still sprawled on the ground, taking his sweet time getting up.

"You did that on purpose," the worker said quietly.

Kyle looked up at him, a small smile on his face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The worker grinned. "Sure."

Kyle pushed himself to his feet, brushed off his pants, and walked over to Jane. She was still laughing, her chest heaving, her eyes bright.

"I told you," she said. "I'm faster."

"You're! I thought I was looking at Barry Allen for a second!" Kyle agreed.

The tall worker watched them—the way Kyle looked at Jane, the way Jane leaned into him, the way neither of them seemed to care that they were standing in a cold parking lot in their fancy clothes.

"This is so weird yet calming," he thought.

He smiled and walked back toward the kitchen, the hundred-pound note folded in his pocket.

Kyle wrapped his arm around Jane's waist. "Ready to go home?"

Jane leaned her head on his shoulder. "Carry me. I'm too drunk to walk."

"You're too drunk to even stand."

Kyle laughed and scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She weighed nothing.

"Princess treatment," she murmured, her eyes closing.

"Always."

He carried her toward the street, where the limousine was waiting.

Behind them, the parking lot was empty again.

But the memory stayed—two people, a ridiculous race, and a love that didn't need to be perfect to be real.