Michael
Iwatch as Katie bites into her blueberry crepe, and I wish I could say it looks elegant. It absolutely does not.
She’s halfway through her second bite before she realizes I’m staring. Blueberry filling and powdered sugar are now involved in a way that would horrify any respectable brunch guest. I have to fight back the urge to laugh.
“What?” she demands.
She’s looking at me with open disgust. That expression right there—half irritated, half suspicious—is exactly why my brain is suddenly picturing her in my bed with that dress somewhere on my floor.
“Nothing, Doll. You’ve got a little blueberry right here.”
I lean forward with a napkin. She startles at the movement, her body going stiff for a split second before she seems to realize what I’m doing. She relaxes and lets me wipe the smear from the corner of her mouth.
“Thanks,” she mutters, her cheeks turning pink.
Then she glares at me.
“You’re still an ass.”
I lean back in my chair.
“And yet, you’re still here.”
“Free breakfast,” she says, taking another bite.
I laugh loud enough that several patrons turn toward us. It’s wildly out of character for me, but I don’t give a fuck. The only thing that exists right now is the goddess sitting across from me—completely uncivilized and somehow still the most beautiful thing in the room.
“You’ll take me home after this?” she says.
She’s serious now. The teasing edge from earlier has vanished.
“If that’s what you want,” I say, letting the butter knife roll through my fingers against the table.
The metal flashes once under the restaurant lights.
“It is,” she says, setting her fork down carefully before folding her hands in her lap.
“Do you want me to leave when I drop you off?” I ask.
Her eyes flick around the dining room. She’s not looking at anyone in particular—just avoiding me. Her fingers pinch the fabric of her dress, smoothing it over her thigh, and then doing it again.
She looks back at me.
“I don’t know.”
I watch her for a long moment. She might not know, but her body definitely does.
Our server approaches the table again, her posture a little too stiff. “Mr. Amato, can I get you and your guest anything else?” she asks nervously.
“No,” I say. “If you could have my driver pull the car around.”
“Yes, sir.”
She hurries away. I push my chair back and stand, sliding a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and dropping it onto the table beside Katie’s plate.
Her gaze follows the motion automatically, curiosity flashing across her face as she watches the bill settle against the tablecloth.
I walk around the table and pull out her chair before extending my hand.
She pauses long enough for me to notice, her fingers hovering above mine, deciding.
Then she places her hand in my palm and lets me pull her up beside me. That’s it.
I don’t let go of her hand as we leave the restaurant. The late morning air hits us the second we step onto the sidewalk, warm and bright—and a camera flashes.
Fuck.
Katie jerks beside me like someone fired a gun. Her fingers tighten painfully around mine as another flash goes off.
“Mr. Amato! Over here!”
A man steps forward with a camera raised to his face.
Katie’s expression changes instantly. The confidence she had inside the restaurant disappears, replaced by pure panic.
Luca moves before I even say anything. One second the photographer has a clear line of sight, and the next Luca is between us, broad shoulders blocking the lens.
“Back up,” he says coldly.
I don’t bother looking behind me to see how the situation ends. My focus is on the woman still gripping my hand. I open the car door and guide Katie inside, ducking in after her. The door shuts with a solid thud, cutting off the shouting outside.
Inside the car, it’s suddenly quiet. The shouting outside fades behind the thick glass, leaving only sound of the engine and Katie’s uneven breathing. When I turn toward her, tears are glistening in her eyes.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I take her hands in mine. They’re trembling. With my other hand, I brush a loose strand of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. For a second she stares at me, wide-eyed and stunned, like her brain is still catching up with what just happened.
Something shifts in her expression. Reality settles back in. She swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand and sits up straighter. The panic drains away almost as quickly as it appeared.
“What the hell?”
I laugh, and she punches me square in the chest.
“It’s not funny.”
“I know,” I say, my voice soft again as I catch her wrist gently before she can swing at me a second time. “It’s the stupid paparazzi. They like getting a glimpse of me whenever they can.”
Her eyes widen.
“I never signed up for that,” she snaps, wiping the last of the tears from under her eyes.
“I know you didn’t, Doll, but it comes with the territory.”
The driver’s door opens, and Luca settles behind the wheel. “Sorry, Boss. That guy came out of nowhere.”
“You’re my eyes, Luca,” I say quietly.
I keep my tone even, controlled, because the last thing I need right now is Katie seeing that other side of me again.
When my anger slipped earlier, it had only been for a moment, but it was long enough for her to notice.
Long enough for the panic in her eyes to shift into something else entirely. Something closer to fear.
I can feel her eyes on me now. She’s watching, waiting. Does she expect that flash of anger to return?
“Yes, Boss,” Luca says, pulling away from the curb and guiding the car into downtown traffic.
I keep my attention on the street ahead, and my posture relaxed. Control has always come naturally to me.