“Tell me what you do for a living.”
He tilts his head. “My family owns parking lots.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s good business.”
“You don’t get apartment building money from parking lots.”
“Very good business.”
“You’re full of shit. What do you do for a living?”
He doesn’t respond. Only stares at me grimly, like he wants me to know but he can’t say the words out loud.
I’ve known men like him. Flashy men with nice cars and obscure professions. They’ve been universally terrible people.
Only Stellan genuinely seems different.
I hate it, but he does.
There’s an edge to him. He’s clearly dangerous. But the things he’s doing for my neighbors are really hard to ignore.
“Why do you keep rejecting my dinner offer?” he asks finally, clearly changing the subject.
“I told you already. I don’t have time for dates. And I also don’t like being blackmailed.”
“Dinner is simple.”
“I have a feeling nothing is simple with you.”
“You’d be surprised. I’m a man of very clear tastes. I’ll tell you what I like, when I like it, and how I like it. There won’t be any guessing.”
“That’s the problem. You probably think that means everyone’s got to cater to you, right? You say what you need and there it is, set forth on a silver platter. Must be nice.”
“You really don’t know me at all.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“No, thanks.” I take another drink of coffee. He looks about as frustrated as I feel. Nothing’s been resolved, and I don’t feel like I’m any closer to figuring him out.
But I do know some things.
He’s attractive. Obscenely attractive. When he talks, I keep staring at his lips. They’re lightly wet, like he licked them recently. The stubble on his cheeks and chin suggests he hasn’t been home in hours. His clothes are expensive, but rumpled. The tattoos are all extremely well done but very dark. His hair is too light to be Italian, but he’s got the olive-toned skin and square jaw of the men I grew up around back in the day.
Beautiful, rich, and dangerous.
And still a freaking mystery.
His phone starts buzzing. He frowns like it’s a rat scuttling across the floor, but he eventually excuses himself and answers it in front of me. I lean back, curiously sipping my coffee, as he grunts into the receiver.
“How bad? Right now? Which one? I can be there in five minutes. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t touch anything either.”
He hangs up and stares at me.
“Your parking lot’s calling?”
