A Marriage Proposal from Nowhere.**Genevieve's POV**

For a split second, I didn't even register what he'd said. He was too good-looking—was he some new model from an agency?

Wait. He said he wanted to marry me? This had to be a prank, or maybe some kind of lost-bet punishment.

I instinctively scanned behind the pillar, under the nearby tables, trying to spot his friends hiding in the shadows, watching the show. But there was nothing—everything looked completely normal.

He smiled at me, seemingly unbothered by my frantic searching. When he spoke, that overwhelming presence softened: "Marry me, and I'll completely respect any choice you make. I'll handle the housework myself. After marriage, I'll give you access to a joint account—you can use it however you want. Whether or not to have children will be entirely your decision."

Every single sentence was a slap in Dennis's face. I stood there stunned—why did he seem so urgent about marrying me?

I didn't need to spend his money. I'd only come out for this blind date to find a partner so Dad would feel at ease accepting treatment. Compared to Dennis, this guy was definitely more suitable.

With a new option on the table, my mood immediately improved, and I didn't even want to bother calling out Dennis's shamelessness anymore.

"We can talk about this," I paused. "Somewhere else."

Dennis finally snapped out of his shock, though his attitude deflated considerably in Reginald's presence: "Hey, this is my friend, we're not done talking—"

Reginald summoned the waiter and handed over his bank card, glancing down at Dennis with condescension: "A man who makes a woman pay for a date doesn't deserve to have a girlfriend."

The way he swiped that card was absolutely badass.

But wait—why was he paying for that jerk? I hadn't ordered anything. That bastard should pay for himself.

Reginald seemed to read my mind and told the waiter, "Only pay for this lady's half." Then he turned to me with a reassuring smile. "I don't make a habit of paying bills for strangers."

Cool.

This was exactly my style. Practically my dream boyfriend.

But I still couldn't let him pay for me. In my panic, I reached out and grabbed his hand: "I shouldn't have to pay the bill—"

His hand was dry and scorching hot, like pressing my palm against an engine that had been running for hours.

I almost reflexively pulled back, but he caught my hand, holding it for just an instant before letting go.

"Your temperature..." I hesitated.

He lowered his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing once: "...I run hot when I'm nervous."

Normal people don't spike that high in temperature just from a little excitement. But I didn't press the issue. A guy willing to pay a three-hundred-dollar bill for a stranger—what was a high body temperature compared to that?

The waiter smiled back: "This lady didn't order anything, sir. You don't need to pay."

This restaurant was actually awesome too. That's exactly how it should be—fair.

I pulled my hand back, flipped Dennis the middle finger, shot him a vicious glare, and followed Reginald out of that suffocating place.

We walked into a coffee shop next door. My mood gradually settled, and I followed behind him, sneaking glances—he was so tall, with broad back muscles that would definitely feel amazing to hold onto.

And his cologne smelled incredible—was that cedar?

"If you don't mind," he turned around, his tone gentle, "could we exchange contact information?"

"Of course."

After adding each other's contacts, I looked up to find his emerald eyes watching me. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Huh?"

Oh my god. Damn it. Had I really not introduced myself this entire time? I'd been sneaking looks at him the whole way over—so embarrassingly smitten.

"I'm Genevieve·Merrin." I tried to make my voice sound less mortified. "And thank you for getting me out of there earlier. The main reason I'm doing blind dates is that my father is sick—I want to get married so he'll feel at ease accepting treatment. Plus, it'd save some on taxes. My financial situation isn't exactly great." Actually, it was terrible.

Reginald nodded after listening, pulled out a chair for me, then began explaining his own situation: "I'm also being pressured by my family to find a partner. And they want me to make a decision before the next full moon."

"Why the full moon?"

He paused: "...Family tradition. Making major decisions at the full moon—symbolizes clarity."

That sounded so heavy. Not like a blind date—more like taking a vow.

Why me?

This made absolutely no sense. I had no idea why he'd chosen me. If he could afford to eat at that kind of restaurant, his income couldn't be low. His looks were the best I'd ever seen in my entire life. Even that commanding presence he had—it was stronger than my college president's at graduation.

And he pulled out chairs for women. He was a gentleman.

I caught my reflection in the window—smiling like an idiot. Oh no, Genevieve, you need to play it cool.

"What do you like about me?" I couldn't help asking. "I'll admit I'm decent-looking, but not enough for love at first sight, right?"

He sat across from me, took a deep breath, pressed his lips together, then lifted those emerald eyes to stare at me unblinkingly.

His expression was sincere, his voice low.

"It's your scent."

When he said this, his Adam's apple moved slightly, like he was restraining something.

Oh my god, his words practically set me on fire. I was sure my face had turned redder than a Coca-Cola label.

Did I smell like something?

"Sorry, I need to use the restroom." I practically fled.

Outside the bathroom, I sniffed myself for ages—there was absolutely no scent.

I braced my hands on the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. Get it together, girl. You can't just believe everything a hot guy says.

Wait. He was standing so far away from me—how could he possibly smell anything on me?

Damn it, had he been playing me?

I took several deep breaths, returned to my seat, and asked directly: "I only smell like laundry detergent—you can buy a huge jug of it cheap at the supermarket. Based on that, how many girls would you have to like in a day?" Maybe not just girls.

"This is going to sound strange," he gestured vaguely. "Not perfume, not detergent." His voice dropped even lower, almost like some kind of animal's rumble. "It's the scent that belongs to you... yourself."

I froze.

He realized he'd said too much and lowered his eyes, his lashes casting a small shadow on his cheekbones: "Sorry. That explanation probably sounds weird."

Was this a confession? Oh my god, those words should've sounded creepy, but his expression was so earnest that I couldn't help wanting to believe him.

"...Well, okay then. I respect personal preferences."

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but ultimately closed it again.

I cleared my throat, pulling my attention back to the blind date: "Can I ask what you do for work? Also, didn't you need to check on your friend after we left the restaurant?"

"Of course. I'm currently starting my own business—still in the early stages..."

I tried hard to focus on his emerald eyes, not letting my gaze drift downward. But the outline of his pecs straining against that shirt was absolutely criminal.

I nodded along as he spoke—those pecs were huge. No, startup, he was doing a startup, I got it. He said he'd been at that restaurant earlier treating a client to dinner.

Reginald set down his coffee cup, his expression suddenly serious: "Do you think we're compatible? If there's anything about me you're not satisfied with, I can change. If you don't have any concerns, I'm ready to get married and register anytime."

I understood his pressure—when family pushes hard enough, people do all kinds of rash things.

Even though we didn't have much emotional foundation, wasn't that how blind dates worked? Besides, marrying him would be an absolute win. With a body and face like a sculpture, what woman would refuse?

I nodded instinctively. Before I could say anything else, my phone rang.

I made an apologetic gesture to him and checked my phone—it was Dad calling.

"Eve? How did it go, sweetheart?"

I could hear the hospital TV in the background—some game show with canned laughter. He'd muted it to call me.

"It was... okay, Dad."

"Your friend Dennis called me." A pause. "Said you left early. He sounded very disappointed."

Oh my god, Dennis was old enough to tattle to parents?

Hearing Dad's worried tone through the phone, I regretted not smashing that dessert right in Dennis's face.

"He wasn't suitable, Dad."

"I know you still can't forget that Xavier—"