ACCIDENTAL ATTRACTION WITH MY EX'S BOSS

Nylah Daniels sat stiffly in the backseat of the Uber as it weaved through the Thursday evening traffic on Kloof Street, Cape Town. The sky outside bled orange and lilac, Table Mountain silhouetted in the distance like a sleeping giant. Normally, she would’ve admired the view—but not tonight. Tonight, she was being carted off to meet a stranger for dinner. A blind date. A bloody blind date. Organised by none other than her overenthusiastic, marriage-obsessed parents who refused to believe that being single wasn’t a terminal illness. According to them, Nylah had grieved her breakup long enough—it had been six months since she walked away from the charming sociopath who almost broke her. And yet, here she was. Dressed in black, not for mourning—but to make an impression she hoped would backfire. Her reflection in the rearview mirror made her sigh. A vision. Tall, striking, and effortlessly elegant, even when she tried not to be. Her skin was the colour of rich caramel, her jaw sharp, and her black hair sleek and straight, parted down the middle and cascading just beneath her shoulder blades. She wore a fitted black mini dress with long sleeves, a slit that was either scandalous or stylish depending on who you asked, and heels that could kill a man in both senses. “Almost there,” the driver said, glancing at her through the mirror. “Can’t wait,” she murmured, the sarcasm lost on him. She inhaled deeply, clutching the strap of her small handbag like a life preserver. Her heart fluttered—not with anticipation, but dread. What if he was a creep? Worse, what if he was nice and actually liked her? She wasn’t ready. Not for flirting. Not for polite conversation. Not for being stared at across a candlelit table while pretending to enjoy salmon tartare. The Uber rolled to a smooth stop in front of La Rossa, a restaurant she immediately deemed far too elegant for someone trying to sabotage a date. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls revealed moody lighting, rich wooden textures, and a clientele that probably didn’t blink at 400 Rand mains. Damn it, Mom. The driver cleared his throat. “We’re here.” “Yeah, I got that,” she said under her breath. Still, she paid him, gave a tight smile, and stepped out into the cool breeze. The scent of the Atlantic danced on the wind, mixing with rosemary from the restaurant’s nearby planter boxes. She adjusted her dress, squared her shoulders, and whispered her mantra: “Be boring. Eat like a pig. End it fast.” Click-clack. Click-clack. Her heels echoed against the stone walkway as she approached the entrance. Her confidence, like her makeup, was painted on. Inside, she was a mess of nerves and muttered curses. Why the hell did she agree to this? A young waitress, barely twenty, greeted her with a chirpy, “Table for one?” Nylah blinked. “Uh… no. I’m here for a… date. Blind. I don’t even know what he looks like, which now feels like a terrible decision.” The waitress smiled like this was a romcom. “Oh! That’s kind of romantic.” Nylah gave her a flat look. “Is it? Or is it a setup for me to be murdered and my organs sold on the dark web?” The girl giggled, clearly not picking up the sarcasm. “You must be the six-thirty reservation. He’s already here. Right this way.” He’s already here? Crap. So much for being fashionably late. As she followed the waitress between tables dressed in soft white linen and flickering candles, Nylah rehearsed her exit strategy. Ten-minute rule. If he talks about crypto, quotes Jordan Peterson, or says women are too emotional—she's out. Her stomach flipped when the waitress stopped. “Enjoy your evening,” the girl said and stepped aside. And there he was. Whoever he was. Nylah’s breath hitched. He sat at a corner table, bathed in low amber light, like the world had dimmed itself around him. She slowed her walk without meaning to—half in awe, half in pure, visceral intimidation. The man wasn’t just handsome. He looked dangerous. His suit, ink-black and immaculately tailored, hugged broad shoulders and a frame that oozed restraint. He sat with the relaxed confidence of a man used to controlling rooms, boardrooms, people. His hands were clasped in front of him, one thumb slowly circling the rim of his whiskey glass like he was barely tolerating the company of the liquid. Sharp jaw, neatly groomed facial hair, lips that looked like they hadn’t smiled in years. And his eyes—obsidian dark, unreadable—lifted from his drink and landed on her with all the warmth of a winter ocean. Nylah faltered. Shit. Her mother had not mentioned that her blind date would be... this. She’d expected a desperate dentist. A divorcee with three kids. A failed DJ. Not... him. And by the way he looked at her—briefly, coolly, as if scanning a file he’d already memorised—she could tell he didn’t know who she was. Even worse? He didn’t care. The waitress gestured to the chair across from him. “Your date, sir.” He gave a single nod. Barely. Nylah stepped forward, forcing herself to walk like she wasn’t suddenly very aware of how short her dress was. As she lowered herself into the seat, she gave him a tight smile. He said nothing. Not a word. Just stared. Well. This was off to a great start. She cleared her throat, unbothered on the outside, chaotic on the inside. “Hi. Nylah.” A beat. He finally spoke. His voice was smooth but deep—like velvet dragged over steel. “I figured.” No offer of his name. No smile. No compliment. Just… I figured. Nylah blinked. “You figured?” He leaned back, studying her. “There aren’t many women who would wear Louboutin heels to a first date and still manage to walk like they’re ready to bolt.” Nylah’s brows rose. “So you’re an expert on footwear and anxiety?” A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his face. It was gone before she could confirm. “Only patterns. People tend to reveal themselves before they speak.” She narrowed her eyes. “And what have I revealed?” He took a sip of his whiskey, deliberate and unbothered. Then he looked at her over the rim of the glass. “That you don’t want to be here.” “Well,” she said, crossing her legs slowly, “lucky you. We have something in common.” That got him. Slight tilt of the lips. Not a smile. A twitch. Like his face wasn’t used to humour, but recognised it when it knocked. He finally said, “ “My name’s Zavian Blake.” Zavian. It suited him. Sharp. Cold. A name you whispered or cursed, depending on where you stood. “And you agreed to this why?” she asked, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. “Because you seem like the kind of guy who files restraining orders against matchmaking.” He didn’t even blink. “Your mother cornered me in the middle of a client lunch. Started crying about how her daughter hasn’t smiled in six months.” Nylah froze. “She cried?” she asked, horrified. He nodded once, then added dryly, “Your father just stood there like a man who’d already lost the war. They said you were beautiful and wounded.” Nylah let out a groan. “Oh my God.” “They said I looked like a good man.” He leaned closer, elbows now on the table. “They were wrong.” For a second, Nylah forgot how to breathe. That close, she could smell him—spice, expensive cologne, and something inherently male. He radiated danger. Not the criminal kind. The calculated kind. The kind who could destroy you with a smile and a single signature. “So why come, then?” she asked, not backing away. His gaze held hers. “Because your mother looked at me like she was asking me to save someone from drowning.” He leaned back again, straightened his cuffs, and added, “And because I haven’t done anything irrational in a while.” Nylah sat there, stunned silent. Her carefully crafted plan—be boring, eat like a pig, make him run—was rapidly unravelling. Because Zavian Blake wasn’t someone you scared off. He was someone you survived. And God help her... something in her wanted to see what happened if she didn’t run.