She Sat At The Wrong Table On A Blind Date — But The Billionaire Refused To Let Her Leave
The Mistake at Table Seven
The rain hammered against the windows of Leernarda, one of Manhattan’s most exclusive restaurants, as Grace Mitchell checked her phone for the 10th time in 2 minutes. Her blind date was supposed to meet her at table 12, but the hostess had been so insistent about table 7 that Grace hadn’t wanted to make a scene.
Now sitting alone in her best black dress, the one she’d saved 3 months to afford, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. The man across from her hadn’t looked up from his menu yet.
He’d arrived precisely at 8, sliding into the chair with the kind of confidence that came from never having to question whether you belonged somewhere. His charcoal suit probably cost more than her monthly rent, and the watch on his wrist definitely did.
Grace studied him over her own menu, noting the sharp line of his jaw and the way his dark hair felt perfectly despite the weather outside.
“The wine list seems excessive tonight,”
he said suddenly, his voice deep and smooth like aged whiskey.
When he finally raised his eyes to meet hers, Grace felt her breath catch. They were the color of storm clouds, gray with hints of blue, and they held an intensity that made her forget she was sitting at the wrong table entirely.
“I wouldn’t know,”
Grace admitted, setting down her menu with hands that trembled slightly.
“I usually just ask for the house red.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Honest. I like that. Most people pretend to know about wine when they don’t.”
He closed his menu decisively.
“I’m Marcus, by the way. Marcus Sterling.”
The name hit her like a physical force. Marcus Sterling—the Marcus Sterling whose face graced the cover of Forbes just last month, the youngest billionaire in New York’s real estate market.
He was the man who turned his family’s struggling property management company into an empire worth billions, and she was sitting at his table by mistake.
“I should go,”
Grace said quickly, already reaching for her purse.
“There’s been a misunderstanding. I’m supposed to be at table 12. My friend Jennifer set me up on a blind date and I don’t—”
An Invitation to Stay
“Stay.”
The single word wasn’t harsh, but it carried enough authority to stop her mid-motion. Marcus leaned forward, those storm gray eyes never leaving her face.
“But your actual date can find another table.”
He signaled the waiter with a casual gesture that spoke of years of being instantly obeyed.
“Unless you’re particularly eager to meet this blind date of yours?”
Grace thought about the profile Jennifer had shown her: Brian something or other, an accountant who collected stamps and lived with his mother. She’d agreed to the date mostly to get Jennifer to stop trying to set her up with every single man in Manhattan.
“Not particularly,”
she admitted, settling back into her chair. Marcus’s smile widened, transforming his face from merely handsome to devastating.
“Good. Then have dinner with me instead. Tell me your name, since fate apparently decided we should meet.”
“Grace. Grace Mitchell.”
She watched him carefully, waiting for the moment he’d realize she didn’t belong in his world.
“I teach third grade at PS 158 in Brooklyn.”
“A teacher.”
He nodded approvingly.
“That explains the patience. You’ve been sitting here for 15 minutes without once checking your phone or looking annoyed. That’s rare these days.”
“Had he been watching her?”
The thought should have been creepy, but instead it sent a warm flutter through her stomach.
“You were late,”
she pointed out.
“I was exactly on time. You were early.”
He paused as the waiter approached.
“We’ll have the tasting menu and bring us a bottle of the 2015 Shassana Montrachet.”
Grace’s eyes widened; she’d glimpsed the price of the tasting menu, and it was more than she made in a week.
“I can’t—”
“You’re my guest,”
Marcus interrupted smoothly.
“And before you argue, consider that you’re doing me a favor. You’re saving me from what would have undoubtedly been another tedious evening with someone who only sees my bank account.”
“How do you know I’m not like that?”
“Because you tried to leave the moment you realized who I was.”
The Man Behind the Headlines
The waiter poured their wine, and Grace took a sip, trying not to react to how impossibly good it was. Everything about this felt surreal, like she’d stepped through a looking glass into someone else’s life.
“So, Grace Mitchell from Brooklyn,”
Marcus said, settling back in his chair with the kind of casual elegance that made everything look effortless.
“Tell me why a teacher is having blind dates on a Thursday night in the most overpriced restaurant in Manhattan.”
She laughed, surprising herself with how natural it felt.
“My friend Jennifer is convinced that I’m going to die alone, surrounded by cat hair and unmarked homework. She means well, but her matchmaking skills are questionable at best.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am,”
Grace agreed, then felt bold enough to add:
“But you haven’t explained why Marcus Sterling needs blind dates. I would think you’d have women lined up around the block.”
His expression darkened slightly, just a shadow passing over his features.
“The women who line up for me aren’t interested in Marcus. They’re interested in Sterling Enterprises, in the penthouse, the private jet, the idea of what being with me represents. Do you know how exhausting it is to be seen as a portfolio rather than a person?”
There was something raw in his voice, a vulnerability that he probably didn’t show often. Grace found herself leaning forward, genuinely curious about the man behind the Forbes headlines.
“So you go on blind dates hoping to find someone who doesn’t know who you are?”
“Something like that. Although clearly the universe has other plans tonight.”
He raised his glass to her.
“To sitting at the wrong table.”
Grace clinked her glass against his, feeling like she was standing on the edge of a cliff about to jump into something that would change everything.
More Than One Dinner
The first course arrived—something delicate and beautiful that Grace couldn’t identify but tasted like heaven. Marcus watched her reaction with obvious pleasure.
“You have the most expressive face,”
he said.
“I can see every thought as it crosses your mind.”
“That must be boring for you.”
“On the contrary, it’s refreshing. Do you know how many people I deal with daily who’ve perfected the art of showing nothing? Your honesty is captivating.”
Grace felt heat rise to her cheeks.
“You barely know me.”
“Then let me.”
The intensity was back in his eyes.
“Unless Brian the accountant is waiting desperately at table 12.”
She glanced over to table 12, where a man sat alone, checking his watch repeatedly. He looked exactly like his photo—pleasant enough, utterly forgettable. As she watched, he pulled out his phone and started playing what looked like a game.
“I think Brian will survive,”
she said, turning back to Marcus.
“Good.”
Marcus reached across the table, his fingers barely brushing hers where they rested on the white tablecloth. The touch was electric, sending sparks up her arm.
“Because I have no intention of letting you leave until I know everything about you.”
“Everything might take more than one dinner.”
“Then we’ll have to have more than one dinner.”
The way he said it, like it was already decided, should have annoyed her. Grace was independent; she had been since she was 16 and her parents died in a car accident, leaving her to navigate the world alone.
She didn’t like men who assumed things, who thought money meant they could orchestrate everyone else’s life. But something about Marcus felt different. It wasn’t arrogance driving him; it was interest—genuine and intense, like she was a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve.
“Tell me about your students,”
he said.
Grace found herself talking about little Tommy, who couldn’t read yet but could build the most amazing structures with blocks, and about Maria, who spoke three languages at 8 years old. She spoke about how she used her own money to buy supplies because the school’s budget never stretched far enough.
Marcus listened, really listened, asking questions that showed he was paying attention. He laughed at her stories about classroom chaos and frowned when she mentioned the leaking ceiling in her classroom that had been scheduled for repair for 3 years.
