Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Yep. You know me. And can you turn off the air? It’s too cold in here.”
“Sure thing,” I told him, as we always told the customers. But we couldn’t touch the air or heat. It was controlled by a thermostat in the locked office. But even just telling people you could change it seemed to placate them.
It was a grueling shift.
Not because it was busy. In fact, it was slower than I’d expected. But because I just felt like crap. Every time I had to laugh or fake a smile, my whole face started to throb. And since tips were my livelihood, I had to put on the mask of happiness.
It was sometime around midnight, though, when the door opened.
And there he was.
I’d stopped looking for him.
I’d almost convinced myself that I didn’t care that he hadn’t shown up.
But there he was.
Looking even better than I remembered in his dark gray slacks, black button-down, and his expensive-looking watch.
His gaze was on me and his eyes scrunched a little, likely thinking that I looked different, like everyone who knew me at the diner had noted.
“It’s open,” I said, waving toward his booth, internally cringing at how raspy my voice sounded, something that made a frown etch deeper on his face.
But he nodded and made a way to his booth anyway.
I fidgeted behind the counter, putting on new pots of regular and decaf, refilling the little saucers of pre-packed creamers, wiping down the counter.
Nervous.
I was nervous to go to his table.
How absurd was that?
Annoyed with myself, I grabbed his water and his coffee and his cream and headed over to him.
I felt his gaze on me the whole way. And for just a short moment, I didn’t feel all the throbbing aches in my body as it warmed under his inspection.
“Hey,” I greeted, keeping my voice low to make the rasp less noticeable.
I’d just passed him his coffee and put down the creamers and was about to move back a step when his hand suddenly shot out, grabbing me at the wrist, and pinning my hand to the table.
Startled, my gaze shot to his, finding a ferocious sort of intensity there.
“Who did it?” he asked, his voice barely more than a growl from how tight his jaw was.
My heart hammered in my chest, realizing I hadn’t looked in a mirror in a long time, that maybe my makeup had started to fail me. I had the stuff in my purse in case of this kind of situation, but I likely would have checked before he showed up if I knew he’d be coming.
“Who did what?” I asked, forcing a small smile, trying to play it off.
“Don’t,” he said, voice somehow both harsh and soft at the same time. “Who put their hands on you?”
I yanked my hand out of his hold so I could take the step back I so desperately needed right then, finding myself both troubled by and oddly turned on by his sort of seething anger right then.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, shaking my head.
He moved so fast that I almost missed it.
He grabbed the stack of napkins, dipped it in his glass of water, then rubbed it across my wrist.
Sure enough, the makeup started to smudge away, showing a bit of the purple bruise beneath.
“Let’s try this again,” he said, his dark gaze holding mine. “Who. The. Fuck. Put. Their. Hands. On. You?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, pulling my hand back and tucking it behind my back, feeling oddly insecure about the bruise even if it clearly hadn’t been my fault.
“Unless it ends with you dumped the fucker’s corpse into the river, I’m afraid I’m going to need to hear it, babe.”
“Why?” I asked, shaking my head.
“Why?” he parroted, brows drawing down.
“Yeah, why? Why do you need to hear it? It has nothing to do with you.”
Was that a little bit of hurt slipping into my words? Yeah, yeah it was. Even if it was silly to be hurt because he missed one night of treating my wound that was really pretty much all healed anyway.
Clearly, my fantasies about Salvatore Costa were screwing with my actual emotions. Which was just not okay. I had to get a grip.
“It has to do with you,” he said, sliding off the seat and standing, towering over me.
“Meet me in the bathroom,” he demanded, already moving off in that direction.
Some stubborn part of me wanted to refuse, to leave him there waiting. The other part of me, though, had a feeling that Salvatore was not the kind of man who would be refused. And he was just crazy enough to bring it up in front of my coworkers or customers if I didn’t give in and give him the private audience.
Steeling myself, I checked on my tables, then made my way toward the bathroom, finding him watching the door expectantly.