date
"I mean, I told her: 'All of this is for poor people, you get that, right?'" The woman laughed like she had just told the joke of the year. "And she just stood there, shocked. I honestly don't understand how someone can be that stupid. Of course, I called the manager and got her fired."
A heavily made-up blonde, wrapped in a fur coat from some endangered species"probably fake, but with the attitude of a real leopard"kept talking, her hands flying dramatically in front of Owen. He just nodded, like one of those bobbleheads that jiggle on bumpy roads.
The date had only been going for five minutes. But for Owen, it felt like five years of active service… with no chance of retirement.
"So, what do you do? And how much do you make?" the woman suddenly asked, like she was talking about the weather.
"Military," Owen replied calmly, sipping his water like he was counting to ten in his head. "And I make… what a soldier makes."
"Military? You mean like those guys in movies, all sweaty and dirty, only knowing how to shoot things?" She wrinkled her nose. "They must make peanuts, right?"
Owen pressed his lips together. His brow furrowed.
"You're right," he said with a smile so sarcastic it could cut steel. "I don't make enough to support you."
"Well, don't worry," she replied, completely missing the sarcasm. "I'll ask my dad to get you a better job. The important thing is that now they'll stop pestering me about not having a steady boyfriend. My God! If they weren't threatening to block my cards, I'd be out with my friends right now. Anyway, since you're joining my family, you better not be a burden. Let me be clear: I have several exes I still… well, I still see them sometimes. But if you're not the jealous type, your life will be way better than it is now."
Owen blinked. For a second, he thought maybe he wasn't awake. Maybe he'd fallen asleep on the plane back from Afghanistan. And this… was his worst nightmare.
"Are you listening to me?" the woman asked, noticing Owen staring into space.
"No. Not at all," he admitted without shame, already at the edge of his patience. One more word and he was going to ask the waiter for a box… to carry out his dignity.
Just then, the atmosphere in the restaurant shifted. Conversations quieted. Heads turned toward the entrance.
Owen looked too.
There she was.
Natasha.
Walking in with a tight black dress that looked like it had been designed to suck the air out of the room. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail that left her neck exposed, her makeup subtle"but with that face, who needed more? Her walk didn't seek attention. Attention chased after her.
Her eyes scanned the room like a panther surveying her territory, until they landed on Owen. And she walked toward him.
"Who's that?" asked the blonde, frowning, jealousy practically oozing from her fake lashes.
"The woman of my dreams," Owen replied, eyes locked on Natasha with a flicker of mischief. Then he turned to his original date. "Sorry, but… this isn't working. Have a good night."
The woman shot Natasha a glare that could have melted steel before standing with fake dignity. Her heels clacked furiously as she walked off.
"Idiot!" she shouted from the door.
"I've heard worse insults with more creativity," Owen murmured, leaning back in his chair. Then he gestured to Natasha. "Go ahead, have a seat. Looks like you just saved me. I knew you couldn't live without me."
Natasha rolled her eyes, but a small smile crept onto her lips. It was quick, like a well-kept secret.
"We found Vlascko. The Purple Man," she said bluntly. "And it seems you're resistant to his pheromones. I need your help. No other agent, aside from me, can stay in control around him for more than a few minutes. But you can."
"Well, I guess that means you owe me another favor, huh?" Owen said with a half-smile.
"What do you want?" Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Since you scared off my date… how about you replace her?"
"We leave in an hour."
"Then we've got an hour," Owen replied casually, implicitly accepting the mission.
Natasha looked at him for a few seconds, as if deciding whether to throw a spoon at his head… or a smile.
"Fine," she said at last. Then she called over the waiter, who approached quickly.
"What can I get you?" he asked with professional politeness.
"The most expensive dish. And the most expensive wine too," Natasha ordered with a sharp smile, glancing at Owen.
"Uh… of course. And for the gentleman?"
"The same," Owen replied with complete confidence. "After all, what's dinner with the woman of my dreams… if it doesn't ruin my budget?"
"Understood…" the waiter said, raising an eyebrow and giving them a curious look before hurrying off, like he didn't want to get caught in the middle of something.
"Well, looks like Mr. Colt's stock portfolio soared after Tony Stark's kidnapping," Natasha commented, crossing her legs elegantly. "No hesitation when ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. You didn't even look at the price."
"Hey! You make me sound like a big spender," Owen replied, raising both hands defensively. "The only luxury thing I own is my car. And for the record, this place was picked by the general… for my lovely failed date."
"Since we've got an hour before the mission," Natasha said, switching to a more professional tone, though a small smile still played on her lips, "I'll brief you, if you don't mind."
"Mind? I'm a workaholic. This is basically flirting," Owen said, leaning an elbow on the table and giving her a playful look.
Natasha didn't reply. She just rolled her eyes with a half-smile before starting her report.
"We don't know exactly how he got his powers, but he uses them to the fullest. Our mission is simple: he'll show up at a high-class party during a negotiation that doesn't concern us. We just need to capture him… alive. One of our agents fell under his mental control and disappeared afterward. We can't let that happen again."
"Infiltration and abduction. Love it," said Owen, just as the food arrived. The speed was impressive… maybe too impressive.
As soon as the waiter placed the plates in front of them, matching grimaces appeared on their faces. The smell… was a chemical assault on their noses.
"This dish is Hákarl, fermented shark meat aged for months. It's accompanied by Indigirka salad, a traditional Russian dish of diced frozen fish with onions and spices. It's part of Iceland-Russia fusion week. Oh, and the wine is a 1945 Romanée-Conti. The chef moved heaven and earth to get it," the waiter said, barely holding back a traitorous laugh at their expressions.
He poured the wine and vanished before anyone could protest. Owen took a sip of wine to escape the ammonia stench rising from the meat.
"Now that I think about it..." he murmured. "This wine was sold at an auction for… five hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars?"
Natasha's reaction was as subtle as a nuclear explosion. The way her eyes widened"barely noticeable"was a glorious moment. Owen couldn't help but chuckle.
"And here I thought you were the queen of self-control…" he whispered with a smile.
They continued discussing the mission, completely ignoring the food and draining their glasses with the solemnity of two agents who knew the wine was the only edible thing on that table.
Suddenly, Natasha's phone vibrated. She answered immediately, her expression hardening.
"Understood. We'll be there," she said before hanging up and turning to Owen. "It's time."
"Perfect. I'll pay for this wonderful culinary experience," said Owen, raising his hand to call the waiter. He pulled out his card and paid without much thought.
"Would you like to take the food with you?" the waiter asked, as if he didn't already know the answer.
"Only if you want me to throw it in your face," Owen replied with a polite smile.
He paid… and the final number made him blink. Six… hundred… thousand… dollars.
"That wine just vaccinated me against luxury for the next ten years," he murmured as he watched the waiter walk away.
Although he had no proof, something about the man's face looked suspiciously familiar. Where have I seen him before…?
But Natasha was already waiting by the door. Fortunately, Owen was already dressed for the occasion. Natasha, on the other hand… well, she wasn't dressed to impress. She just did, effortlessly.
As they walked away, the waiter watched them with resentment, especially Owen. As if sharing a table with Natasha Romanoff was an unforgivable sin.
"Brian, you're fired!" the chef's voice shouted from the kitchen. "Don't think we don't notice your little games. You'll never work in a restaurant again, you hear me?!"
Brian stood frozen. Then he clenched his teeth and glared toward the door with hatred. As if Owen were the reason for his downfall.
Meanwhile, Owen got into Natasha's car just as his phone rang.
"Yeah?" he answered without looking at the screen.
The general's voice came through on the other end with his usual dry tone.
"I'm not going to tell you how to live your life, Colt… but I've got to admit, you've got style. Don't worry about the mess of a date. Enjoy yourself."
And he hung up.
Owen just shook his head and smiled.
"Style, huh? Who would've thought…"
Natasha started the car without saying a word… though out of the corner of his eye, Owen could've sworn he saw her smile. Very, very slightly. But enough to know that yes, tonight had been worth it.