“Did you leave?” I ask, not liking how much that thought bothers me.
He turns and ends his conversation abruptly. “I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone before pocketing it. His eyes track me from head to toe, appreciation evident in the way his gaze lingers.
“No,” he replies. “I had Vito bring some clothes this morning.”
Vito’s the guy who’s never far from me at the Leone Room. We’ve never been formally introduced, but my spy deduction skills are unparalleled. Plus, I’ve heard Matteo use his name a few times.
I nod. “Right, right,” I murmur, like that makes sense.
His shirt has short sleeves, so he’s showing off his tattoos and those corded, muscled forearms. Be still my heart.
I frown when I realize he’s still wearing the eyepatch. Since I don’t know why he’s wearing it, I don’t know what I was expecting. But the more I look at the left side of his face, the more I wonder what he’s hiding beneath that patch.
Matteo has scars on both sides of his face, but the ones on the left are by far the most prominent ones. They’re… deeper, bigger, and if I remember correctly, they reach the corner of his eye. Which is hidden by the patch right now.
Realizing I’m just standing here, gawking, I swallow harshly. “So, umm… good morning,” I chirp awkwardly, aiming for casualness and landing somewhere in the vicinity of slightly manic.
Instead of responding verbally, he crosses the room in long strides and cups my face in his hands. The kiss he gives me is gentle—so gentle it hurts somewhere deep in my chest.
When he pulls back, his thumbs stroke my cheekbones with a reverence that makes me want to run. “You look beautiful,” he says simply.
“Thanks,” I manage, stepping back to put some much-needed distance between us. “It’s nothing special. Just work clothes.”
His lips quirk up at one corner. “I wasn’t talking about the dress.”
Oh. Oh no. We are not doing this.
Pin it, pin it, pin it.
“Breakfast?” I blurt too loudly. “I’m starving.”
Something flickers in his eye—amusement, maybe, or understanding—before he nods. “There’s a place near your office I’d like to take you,” he grins.
Words fail me, so instead of wasting time attempting to string a sentence together, I get my things so we can leave.
The way his hand finds the small of my back as he guides me out the door feels proprietary, possessive. My heart does a littlestutter-step when his fingers splay wider, encompassing more of me.
Nope. Pin it.
“Car’s downstairs,” he says, holding the door for me.
As I step past him into the hallway, I catch the scent of him—soap and coffee and something darker. My pulse quickens, and I mentally hammer another pin into the board of things I’m not dealing with right now.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m not in love with Matteo Russo. He’s not in love with me. We’re just two people playing pretend until I’ve carried out the favor I owe him. That’s my new mantra, and I stubbornly repeat it throughout the drive.
The diner Matteo chooses is all chrome and red vinyl, like someone preserved a slice of the fifties in amber. It’s busy but not crowded—the sweet spot between breakfast and lunch rush—and smells like coffee and bacon grease.
My stomach growls as we slide into a booth by the window, morning sunlight warming the tabletop between us. I’ve been so focused on not thinking about last night that I’ve worked up a legitimate appetite.
Matteo sits across from me, his posture relaxed but his eye alert, scanning the room like he’s cataloging exits and potential threats. Old habits, I guess.
“Their pancakes are good,” he says, not bothering to open the plastic menu. “And the coffee’s decent.”
I flip through laminated pages filled with pictures of greasy comfort food. “Sorry, Matty. But I can’t take your word for it,” I say very seriously.
“Why not?” His affronted tone makes me smile.
“Because I’ve only ever seen you eat over-the-top healthy and plain breakfasts,” I dutifully point out.
