He stops me again as we do our little step-forward-step-backward dance, bringing a hand to his chest like I just harpooned it. “Oh, come on. Spending time with me can’t possibly be worse than a party you don’t want to be at.”
And yet somehow I know it is.
“You don’t even have to smile. You can keep frowning at me thewholenight.” When I hesitate, he gestures at my face. “You look pretty when you’re offended.”
“I’m not offended.”
“Then I guess you’re just pretty.”
I glare, though I can’t help the warmth bursting in my stomach. That was so cheesy italmostworked. But if I’m to partake in this charade, I’m not walking away without a cut.
“Fakenumber. And I get half the money,” I say.
His brows shoot up over his mask. “You want me to pay you for your time?”
“I’m helping you win two hundred bucks.”
“Last offer.” He squares his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his chest and showing a sliver of golden skin. “Fakenumber, and we spend the money tonight. Two hundred dollars, no holding back. Together.”
One night with a full budget? Oh, I know exactly how I’d blow it: dinner at La Belle Vue, a place with breadbaskets that come with their own little dipping oils; then the Soothing Spot on Maple Avenue for a massage that’s half relaxation, half torture. And after that? Definitely a double scoop at Sweet Cream Dreams.
But I have a feeling his idea of fun is… different.
“Who decides what we do?”
“We take turns.” When my mouth twists, he adds, “You pick first.”
“Dinner at La Belle Vue.”
His dark brown curls swing over his forehead with the light tilt of his head. “You had that ready to go, didn’t you?”
Damn it, I didn’t mean to agree. I got distracted by the thought of the dipping oils.
Before I can take it back, he says, “You got it. La Belle Vue.” He holds his phone out, and I type in a random number, saving the contact as “Maybe After the First Date.”
He glances down at it. “Cute. I’ll be right back—don’t go anywhere.”
He heads off to Dave and Lucas, who, after peeking at his phone, groan, obviously annoyed. Rafael seems a little too pleased for someone who’s scored a fake win, but who am I to argue?
Though it’s about a decade late, I get my birthday wish.
A date with Rafael Gray.
“All right.” I tap the menu for emphasis. “Let’s start with the truffle arancini. Then the heirloom tomato bruschetta and the lobster ravioli, sauce on the side.” I glance up at the waiter, who’s throwing a disgruntled look at my masked face. “And for my main, I’ll take the filet mignon, medium rare, with the black garlic butter on top. Oh! And can you add a side of those duck fat potatoes?”
The waiter blinks, clearly taken aback. He recovers and scribbles furiously. “And for you, sir?”
Rafael sets down his menu, and my eyes catch on the tattoos stretched across his knuckles—black letters spelling LUST in sharp strokes. Between the words, smaller designs creep along his fingers: a tiny dagger, an eye with lashes like rays, and a cracked heart inked just below one knuckle. Silver rings gleam at nearly every finger—one shaped like a coiled snake, another thick and weathered with tiny skulls etched around the band, and a square-cut black stone that catches the light like obsidian.
Over the edge of his mask, his gray eyes glint with humor. “I think someone’s trying to get rid of me quickly.”
“Nope. Just hungry.” Apparently, my attempt at blowing all our budget at once isn’t as unsuspicious as I thought.
“Really? You’re going to eat all of that?”
I shrug, but he must see right through me, because he turns to the waiter and says, “We’ll share.”
“All right. I’ll be back with your wine soon.”
