I can feel a blush creeping up my cheeks, and I must look away. This is more than I can take. I don’t like him that way. Anyway, I have more important things going on. Danny’s ghost won’t wait for me to settle down and playhouse. His murder demands retribution, and that’s the only thing that matters to me.
CHAPTER 7
FRANKIE
If Sofia seems overly interested in my family, I chalk it up to nerves. She looks hot, but I’m old enough to know that women are people. She’s probably just as flustered as I am, and she’s channeling it into domestic discussions.
I don’t talk about my father. He’s specifically off limits. There are other things I can talk about though, the Italian countryside and what kind of mischief I got up to in high school. I made a mistake by telling her how much money my family has. I don’t know if I thought it would impress her, or if I just let my guard down because she’s so attractive. Either way, I hope she doesn’t get the wrong idea.
I’m not some kind of rich playboy who’s looking for an easy score. And I’m not the kind of man who will throw around my net worth just to get a date. Although if one thing leads to another and she wants to come home with me, I’m not going to say no.
It even occurs to me that she might be impressed by my family’s home. But that’s as far as things get before my better judgmentshuts them down. Anyone who comes to the family mansion has to be vetted. I don’t want to put Sofia through that now, and I don’t want to bother my father. He has more important things to do than worry about the girls I date. Besides, I’m handling things well enough on my own.
Sofia is exquisite in her hip-hugging dress. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination, but that’s okay. I can imagine it crumpled up on the floor of a hotel room, or maybe the floor of her bedroom if I make it that far.
I’m not paying attention to much else, and it takes all of my concentration to focus on our conversation. She’s sharing a few things about her home life, but that doesn’t seem comfortable for her either. Maybe when we get to know each other, we can be a little more honest about our upbringing. For now, I’m happy to talk about science fiction and the best vegan dishes. Light and happy is just about my speed, and though she seems eager to hear my backstory, I keep things surface level.
“Have you ever tried miso soup?” I ask her.
“Of course,” she replies. “That Thai place on Rochester Street has some amazing miso soup.”
“Have you ever been a vegetarian?” I pose a typical, harmless question.
“Once, when I was seventeen,” she answers. “You?”
“When I was twelve,” I say. “My father shot that down real fast.”
“Your father likes meat?” she assumes.
“Oh, he’s a carnivore,” I affirm.
I finish two glasses of wine, and I notice she’s still on her first. I slow down, not wanting to look like a lush. I could comfortably drink a few more, but I don’t want her to think I have an alcohol problem. Whatever she’s doing, I’m going to match it. If she’s sipping on her glass, then I’ll do the same. All I want to do is impress her.
The dinner goes well. We even stay for dessert. We share a piece of chocolate cake with ice cream that she says is going straight to her hips. I assure her that there’s no way a single piece of cake could do anything to make her less attractive.
“In fact, I think it says a lot that you would dare eat cake with me on our first date,” I declare.
“You better watch out,” she teases. “Our second date might be all about the cake.”
I can’t tell if that’s a sexual innuendo or not. I decide not to take the bait. Better to look like I don’t understand the subtext than come off looking creepy. We finish our dessert in silence before she looks at her phone.
I watch as she texts someone. I’m hoping it’s a girlfriend and not another man. She sees me watching and puts her phone away.
“Work,” she explains.
“I didn’t know you had a job,” I stammer.
“Of course I have a job,” she says lightly. “Shall we go?”
I guess she doesn’t want to tell me what she’s doing for a living. If she wants to be a writer, maybe that means she’s working some dead-end position in a less than glamorous industry. I wonder briefly if she’s a fast-food worker or if there’s a similar reason, she doesn’t want to share any of the details.
It doesn’t seem like the right time to give her the third degree, so I drop it. I escort her out of the restaurant after paying the bill. Our car pulls up, and I open the door for her. She slips inside, giving me a view of her left leg from ankle to hip, before tugging her dress down to her knees.
I feel energy wash over me like a tidal wave, the sight so magnetic it draws me in. I sit down next to her and pull the door shut, careful not to sit too close. I want to be one hundred percent sure that she’s interested before I make any move. It would be disastrous to get this far into the date and blow it because I’m being too enthusiastic.
“Hot night,” I say simply.
“Yeah,” she agrees.
