“Okay.” I nod. I still have no idea why she’s acting like a fruit loop. So, the last name’s Italian; half of the damn city’s Italian.
“That’s theJokerGrace—in the flesh! He’s a freakinggangster; a very, very badgangster.”
I snort again, laughing. I can’t help it. She’s crazy. There’s no way that man is a gangster. There’s nothing ‘thuggish’ about him. If anything, I’d be more likely to believe that he’s a prominent, rich businessman in that custom-tailored suit. I wouldn’t think twice about him stealing my purse if I was walking down the street.
He has medium brown hair, slicked back—trimmed short, but not too short—with enough to wind your fingers in. I don’t see any tattoos on him, but if he has any they’re most likely covered by the suit he’s wearing. I doubt they’d be covered though, if hewasa gangster. I’ve watched The History Channel and their specials on organized crime before; he looks nothing like any of them. It’s safe to say that if I saw him getting into an expensive car, I’d believe it was his—not that he was stealing it. That is, after all, what the gangsters on The History Channel do. They steal, cheat, bribe, and sell drugs. This man clearly is not a drug addict and has enough money in his pocket to pay for his lunch.
My disbelieving snort must be louder than normal with everyone being quiet, because suddenly I’m in an intense eye lock with the man himself; only he’s not as amused as I am. His gaze is dark and stormy with unmeasured anger. He could probably blow someone up with that lethal look. I don’t know if he wants to skin me alive or yank my skirt off and go to pound town.
Swallowing, my throat grows dry at the glower. And so help me, my dumb ass wants to roll my eyes to push his buttons, curious to discover what he’ll do and see if I can make that scowl become even darker. I’m not normally so self-destructive, but Kaleigh’s proclamations have my stubborn side rearing its head.
I can make out my best friend in the background, still murmuring details as I have a stare down with one of the finest men I’ve ever seen. “Everyone calls him theJoker, but it’s not because of his love of laughs; it’s the opposite. Heneverjokes with anyone. He’s not even nice and he doesn’t speak to regular people.”
That gets me. I blink, breaking the stare off and meet her gaze, “Um … regular people? You mean like you and me?” She nods her head just a touch, not wanting to move and call attention to herself. “What a dick,” I grumble and she gasps at my blunt but truthful reply. Shortly after, my arm warms.
You know how you get the prickly feeling when you can tell someone is watching you and sometimes your cheeks heat? I have that, but also the uncanny suspicion that he’s not simply staring at me anymore, but like his body’s physically near me. I canfeelhis presence as if he’s sucked all the air and energy out of the room.
Inhaling a deep breath, I turn to my left and damned if I wasn’t right. I knew I felt someone approaching us when I questioned her about being ‘a regular person.’ Sure as fuck, I glance up, and it’s him—right beside me.
He glowers down at me with golden irises blazing, full of intimidation. He’s a broody one, I can already tell, and for some odd reason I find it incredibly sexy in a man.
When I get nervous or irritated, I tend to get a bit sarcastic, so before I think about my words, I let a little snark come out. “I’ll take a refill. To go, please. Oh, and the check. Thanks.” Turning my head away quickly, I push my glass closer to the edge of the table and bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t babble, concentrating on pushing my food around my plate.
I can’t believe I just let that come out of my mouth. So much for the shot idea. I have a feeling he may lose it and get us kicked out before I can reunite with my old friend, Jose Cuervo. Or else Kaleigh may pass out from hyperventilating and make me tote her ass back to my office.
The restaurant’s so silent, you can hear the refrigerator kick on behind the waitress area.
I swallow again, trying not to exhale to loudly.
A throat clears, but I keep my head still and count to myself.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Holy shit.
Seven.
Holy shit.
What number was I on?
Five of the longest seconds I’ve ever experienced. My self-coping method of counting out random numbers comes to a smashing halt when warm fingertips brush my chin. They’re soft and careful as they gently turn my face toward him again—the movements commanding, but not forceful.
His voice is low, almost gravelly, like he’s not used to speaking or perhaps he’s used to yelling a lot. He is Italian, after all. “Your bill is taken care of,Bella.” He licks his bottom lip. “I will send someone with your drink.”
Pure sex. That’s what comes to mind when he speaks. I would climb him like a goddamn jungle gym right now if the circumstances were different. I could fucking die. Legit, just keel over after hearing the sexy rasp that no doubt matches his beautiful face. I bet his body’s insane under that suit, no flaw about him. And that accent,definitelyItalian.
My hands clench into fists as I stop myself from doing the sign of the cross, thanking God for creating a man so divine to look at and listen to.
I’m too embarrassed at my rude behavior—at the entire scene and knowing that everyone is staring—to meet his gaze. Barely nodding, mimicking Kaleigh from earlier, I keep my eyes trained on the rich texture of his deep blue tie. It’s nearly black, but there’s a hint of color that I can make out with the hanging light over our table. It’s one of my favorite colors, but that’s irrelevant right now.