“Nice key chain.” Biting my lip to suppress a giggle, he shoots me an annoyed look that’s laced with humor. It’s the firsttime I catch a glimpse of the color in his eyes. They might be green or maybe blue. It’s hard to tell with the lighting.
“It makes it easier to remember what the key is for.” Ace opens the door and holds his hand out to help me down the two small steps to reach him.
“Such a gentleman.”
“Not always.” He throws me a wink, and my stomach dips slightly.
Jesus, he’s hot.
The key clicks into place, and the knob turns. The citrus smell of what must be some candle or cleaner invades my nostrils. My eyes take a moment to adjust, and I notice the rustic, classic Italian feel of the place. He hasn’t turned the lights on, so I can only guess by touch and the little bit of light that’s peering from the streetlamps that the walls are made of brick.
Ace shuts the door behind me and walks straight to the back. In less than a minute, the light in the back of the restaurant is on, and I’m able to see the red bricks I’d touched lined with decorative and elegant plates hanging on them. The sleek wooden tables hold nothing but unique saltshakers and candleholders. Doing a quick sweep of the room, I find out how long it is, and to my surprise, it opens onto a much bigger space in the back. On my way there, I pass the bar with pieces of colored ceramic lining the wall across from it, where a brick-oven pizza maker stands.
The spacious room I find is decorated similarly and is just as cozy as the one in front. It’s the exact kind of restaurant I’d want to eat in—what looks like a hole-in-the-wall, but is so much more once you’ve explored it.
“What’s your drink?”
Ace’s voice causes me to jump. Turning, I find him behind the bar. His suit jacket’s off, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up, showing off his forearms, which, of course, have those hot veins you only see in movies or read about. Again, something that isn’t sexual, but turns me on nonetheless.
Shrugging my silk shawl off, I sit on one of the stools. “Vodka soda, with a slice of lime if you have it.”
Nodding, he prepares the drink. As much as I appreciate him trusting me enough to show me one of the places he owns, I keep my eyes on everything he does. Ever since last semester, when a friend went through something traumatic, I haven’t left a drink unattended or let it be made without watching.
As I keep my eyes on his hands, I try to make some small talk. “So, is this your move?”
He looks up, confusion lining his face. “My move?”
Biting my lip, I nod. “You know, bringing a girl to your restaurant, impressing her, making her favorite drink, all that?”
He places the vodka bottle down for a moment and crosses his arms, leaning back as he looks directly at me. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever done this with, and it isn’t a move.”
Tilting my head, I observe his expressive eyes and find nothing but sincerity. “Why me?”
Ace doesn’t hesitate. “Why not you?” And with that, he resumes his work. Well, that wasn’t really an answer. “You’ll know my move when I make it.”
He says it so quickly, I barely catch it. “What?”
“What do you think of the place? I had to keep the front light off so people wouldn’t think we were still open. We closed much earlier than usual today.” He cuts a perfect slice of lime and drops it into the glass, then adds a small black straw.
Ace slides it over, and I push it back a bit. “You first.”
His left eyebrow lifts a fraction, but he follows my instructions. After a short staring contest when nothing happens, I take the drink and smile.
He hums. “Smart.”
Nodding, I turn on the stool. “I love it, by the way. I can’t believe I’ve never seen the place before.”
I hear him making his own drink. “I wasn’t lying when I said they were holes-in-the-wall. They just happen to do very well.”
Turning back to him, I incline my head, unsurprised. “Thepeople trying to buy them just to change them are idiots. It’s rare to find a restaurant with good food that isn’t sleek and modern-looking nowadays.”
Ace turns with a whiskey on the rocks. No bullshit drink, I appreciate that in a man. “Agreed. It’s the restaurant I come to the most often and the first one I ever opened.”
Thirty-one years old, and he has multiple restaurants? Color me even more curious. “How old were you when it first opened?”
He swallows a sip of his drink and averts his gaze. “Twenty-six.”
My eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “Twenty-six? Shit, I feel like I’m way behind in life.”
