“I’ll go meet with Mancini, but Poppy?”
I shifted awkwardly. “Yeah?”
“I’d very much like to go to the movies with you.” He didn’t wait for my response but moved toward the front door.
Thatyousounded singular. English was such a mixed-up language. In Italian, I would have known if he meant the plural, if he meant he wanted to come with our group. But instead, I was left to wonder as I trailed after him.
The cartoon characters were singing. Again. I was bored out of my mind. Screen time at our house was limited, not because I thought it was bad or brain rotting, but because we spent our downtime reading. To Brady, the big cinema, with a concession stand that was basically a restaurant, was a novel experience.
He was in his element.
Meanwhile, I lasted a whole twenty minutes before pulling my Kindle from my purse. The screen light was set low to avoid causing a disturbance. As it always did, the book pulled me into the pages. Made up cities painted vivid pictures in my mind. Not only could I see the characters, but I felt their struggles.
It was almost enough to distract me from the long pair of legs to my left.
But then their owner shifted in his seat.
A hand, decorated with ink, scooped the popcorn tucked at the edge of my seat. Suddenly, my gaze was focused on his hand. This close, puckered skin and white lines crisscrossing the back of those knuckles were visible.
My gaze darted back to my Kindle.
To my right, Penelope leaned over to giggle with Brady, who sat between her and Alessandro. If either of them was upset that there was an extra guest sitting up here with us, they didn’t say.
I rolled to my side, tucking my legs under me. The bag of popcorn lurched and tipped slightly. I reached to catch it at the same time Ivan did. The edge of his hand brushed against mine.
Electricity crackled from the contact.
Snatching my hand back, I splayed my fingers over my thigh.
Ivan bent his head. “Do I make you nervous?”
The crisp scent of mint was a welcome relief from the stale aromas of the theater. I breathed him in, enjoying the small rush of his attention.
“No,” I said honestly. “I just don’t like the taste of the fake butter they put on that.”
I gestured to the bag.
Ivan plucked a few kernels from the bag and rolled them on his palm with his thumb. “It’s fake?”
I nodded. “I make it at home with the real stuff. It’s much better.”
“Then why did you get it?” he whispered.
My shoulder lifted slightly. “It’s part of the cinematic experience.”
Ivan moved back to his side. The arm rest between us was a poor barrier. It could lift, and then we’d be sitting together. As it was, there wasn’t much protection from his presence.
I forced myself to resume reading. Several pages roped me back into the story about a witch and the king of the vampiresshe was working with under duress. They couldn’t stop stealing glances across the throne room.
Just like I couldn’t stop sneaking a peek at the mobster next to me.
Eyes trained on the screen, Ivan smirked. “See something you like?”
My cheeks burned. I huddled into the cushioned seat, trying to make myself small.
But Ivan wasn’t done.
He crossed the divide, yellow box with thick brown letters held out. “Want some?”
