I blink.
This must be a misunderstanding. It can’t be him. He’s not really here.
I don’t want him here.
He makes my blood boil.
I steal a glance toward him. He stands near the counter with his back to me, probably wondering where the staff is.
Maybe he has a bro date with Ryan.
My gaze lands on his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and an ass that looks like it was sculpted by Michelangelo.
How despicable.
I don’t want to look at him. I can’t help it, either.
I curse my family for opening a trattoria. I curse the moon. I curse whoever invented biceps. Then I curse myself for obsessing over his muscles again. Who cares if he works out? Plenty of people work out.
I, personally, carry plates.
Channeling my best Marcus Aurelius fortitude, I step forward.
“Table for one?”
My voice is flat and unwelcoming. If my parents heard me, they’d request a performance review. Then Mom would insist I eat a biscotto and have a rest.
Hearing my voice, Caspian turns.
I brace myself for a snide remark about having to wait.
Instead, his hazel eyes widen .
His lips part.
He just… stops. Like whatever thought he was having evaporated.
Heat rushes up my spine.
My fingers dig into the order pad until the paper nearly tears.
He blinks hard, like he’s trying to reboot.
I’m debating whether I should poke him with my pen, when he blurts, “I’m single.”
My brain offers an unhelpful error code.
“What?”
His face goes scarlet. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He puts his hands in his pockets, then immediately pulls them back like his pockets were lava.
“Garlic knots,” he whispers.
He rubs his neck. “I meant to say I’m garlic knots.”
He winces, looking physically pained.
“No, that’s not—not right.”
