I roll my eyes but smile. “Sure. Coming right up.”
“It doesn’t count for our date!” he calls after me.
Five minutes later, I stand wrapped in a short pink robe with the espresso machine spitting out two shots. Joey saunters in, looking every bit as handsome as he did the night before. My body responds to the sight of his large frame, the implicitly masculine way he carries himself in his button-down shirt and slacks that look sexy and still somehow appropriate this morning. I can tell by the fabric and cut they are designer brands, and I didn’t miss the Rolex watch nor the Ray-Ban sunglasses. These symbols of a wealth won through illegal means irritate me, but, like everything else about him, also turn me on.
He wanders into the living room and examines my framed posters on the wall. “You’re a fan of musicals?”
“Shut up,” I say, expecting ridicule.
“I’m not judging.” He returns to the kitchen. “I like musicals.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You. Like musicals.” My voice drips with disbelief.
He shrugs. “Yeah. Why not? I’ll tell you what, how about I take you to see a Broadway show for our second date?”
“Which one?”
“What do you want to see?”
“Hamiltonis my favorite.”
His lips quirk. “Then let’s go. I’ll buy tickets.”
“Seriously?” My entire body temperature rises by two degrees at the unexpected pleasure. The two hundred dollar tickets would be a huge splurge for me, which is why I only go to see Broadway shows once a year. The fact that Joey LaTorre deduced I’d be interested and is willing to take me comes as a shocker.
“I’d love to. Wow.” I try to hide my excitement. I can’t let this guy get a big head or anything. I guess I fail because Joey gives me a knowing grin. “Cream and sugar?”
“Please.”
I stir his coffee for him and hand it over, watching as he drains it all at once. He hands me the cup and pulls the bag of garbage out of my trash container as if he lives here, and it’s his duty.
“So I’ll get tickets—when’s our next date?” He leans forward to give me a kiss. “I don’t want to come on too strong.”
I snort.
“Too late?” When I give him a “yeah, dummy” look, he says, “In that case, tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I exclaim with incredulity.
He winks. “I’ll call for tickets. I can’t get enough of you,bella.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “You are so full of shit, LaTorre.”
“It’s not shit, it’s the God’s honest truth. I’ve had it for you since the moment I saw you all grown up. I’d marry you today if you’d have me.”
I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “You’re nuts.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so. I’m not afraid to go after what I want. And what I want is you.” He gives me another kiss. “See you at six.”
Joey
I pull in at Swank, the bar and lounge that’s officially in my name, where my main job is laundering Al’s money. Bobby, one of the Made Men who owns a construction business–also great for laundering money–built the place years ago, and it lives up to its name.
The low lighting is classy, the booths are plush, and the cocktails are expensive.
Al’s Lamborghini is already there, parked in my “Reserved for Owner” spot. Not that it matters at one in the afternoon. Carlo’s silver Mustang is parked beside it. I pull beside them and walk in, bellying up to the bar and ordering a Glenlivet.
Sammy, the general manager and one of the Made Men, stands behind the bar, his arms folded across his chest, surveying the smattering of customers and the dancer on the stage. He barely acknowledges me.