I take it all in. The sporty car, his leather jacket, his hair which he absently pushes off his face even though it falls right back down. I like it like that. He looks like a badass but cute too. And sexy.
It smells like him in here. Woodsy and clean and very masculine. The car itself is impeccably clean. I think if he saw my room, he’d flip.
“What do you feel like eating?” he asks as soon as he closes his door.
This is strange. We’re going on a date. “Um, I don’t mind. Italian? But anything’s fine.”
He nods and starts the car. “I know a place.”
I look at him, wondering how he knows a place in my neighborhood, and then I wonder what he’s waiting for. When he leans over me and he’s so close, I think he’s going to kiss me. I lick my lips, staring into his chocolate eyes, but nothing happens. Well, a corner of his mouth curves upward into a one-sided grin, and his eyes narrow a little as though he knows just what I’m thinking. I wonder how old he is. How experienced. If he works at the club, he must meet girls all the time. He must take girls upstairs all the time.
I feel my face flush with heat, and that one-sided grin widens to spread across his face. He knows exactly what he’s doing as he reaches for my seat belt and drags it across my chest, his face still inches from mine, hand not quite touching me but close enough that I swear electricity sparks between us.
“Safety first,” he says with a wink. His gaze slides downward momentarily before he’s back in his seat and shifting the car into first.
I touch my face. It feels hot. I adjust my shirt because what he was looking at were my nipples trying to tear through the fabric in anticipation of our kiss.
“Safety first,” I repeat. Can he hear my disappointment at the non-kiss?
He pulls expertly out of the parking lot, driving fast but fully in control of the sporty Audi. I watch as his big hand shifts gears seamlessly, merging with traffic, his body relaxed, casual as he glances at me, then back at the road.
In profile, he’s not so much cute anymore as hyper-masculine and very sexy. It’s his jawline, chiseled and hard and with that perfect five o’clock shadow.
“What are you looking at?” he asks me.
I snap my gaze straight ahead, embarrassed and still nervous. I’ve never really dated. Well, a few times since I moved in with Rachel but no one like Lev. No one I ever felt this way around.
I turn to him. “Why did you come all the way out here to bring me my scarf?”
He glances at me momentarily, dark eyes clear. There’s something wild inside them. Something carnal.
He licks his lips before he answers, and when he swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple work. Can a man’s Adam’s apple be sexy?
Something is seriously wrong with me.
“I wanted to see you again,” he says, and it’s what I want to hear. “Tell me your story, Katerina Blake.”
I’m taken aback, wondering how he knows my last name. But then I remember he’d taken a photo of my driver’s license. The real one. That was how he found me in the first place.
“I don’t know your last name,” I say.
“It’s Antonov,” he answers shortly after turning his attention back to the road.
“Where are you from?”
“I asked your story first.”
“I’m pretty sure yours will be more interesting than mine.” Never mind the fact that I don’t like to tell mine. It’s not a pretty one.
“Tell me and I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.” Here goes. “I’ve lived here since I was a toddler. I mean, not here in the apartment but in the area, mostly just outside Philadelphia. Graduated high school last year and have been on my own since. I go to night school at the local community college in addition to working at the diner.” CliffsNotes version. “See, boring.”
“What do you study?” he asks.
We’re in the city now, and he’s taking a turn onto South 2nd Street. I wonder where he’s taking me. I rarely get to this part of the city although I love it.
“I want to become a teacher. You know, work with kids. Help them.”
He gives me a look like he’s surprised and pleased at once. “And your family? Your background? I thought Eastern European.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Bone structure. But then your eyes and hair made me think Irish?”
I’m surprised. “My mom was Irish. No one ever notices, I think.”
“Then they’re not paying attention. We’re here,” he announces as he snags a tight spot between two parked cars on a side street off South 2nd.
I look around but don’t see much. “Where are we going?”
“Giacomo’s,” he says, climbing out of the car and closing his door.