6. Lizzy #2
“Artichokes are the bomb,” Mason says. “We’re also each going to have the lemon chicken.”
“Perfecto,” Benito replies. “I’ll send out a bottle of white wine that’ll pair perfectly with both.”
“You’re too kind,” Mason says to Benito.
It’s like watching kindred spirits meeting for the first time.
“It’s my pleasure. I need to get back to the kitchen, but I’ll come check on you later. I’ll be interested to see what you say about the artichokes, Lizzy.”
“I’m sure I’ll love them,” I tell Benito.
He gives a quick bow before he disappears.
“He seems nice,” Mason says, taking my menu and placing it with his on the edge of the table.
“He is, and so is his entire family.”
“Now.” Mason leans forward, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. “I want to know who hurt you, sweetheart?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I first met you, I thought you were this confident woman, but I’ve heard you say more than one thing about your body and image. Who put that shit in your mind? Who made you feel like it mattered?”
I shrug, trying to shut out the memories of my ex and his words that stung each time he made a comment about my body. “It’s not a big deal.”
Mason reaches out, taking my hand in his. “It is a big deal, Lizzy. No one should make you feel that way. Your body is absolute perfection.”
I laugh nervously, but the look in his eyes says he’s serious. “I have a few pounds to lose.”
“Where?” he asks, staring at me. “I don’t like a skinny woman. I don’t want to hold skin and bones. I want lush. I want soft. Everything about your body and mind is perfect, except your opinion of yourself.”
I never thought about my weight until Benjamin. He had a lot of opinions and would often order for me when we went out to eat because he said I wasn’t healthy enough and he was doing me a favor.
“I don’t think badly about myself. I’m just stating a fact,” I tell him, squirming in my seat under the weight of his gaze.
“You do think badly about yourself. Who made you feel that way?”
“No one.”
His lips set in a firm line. “Who?”
I sigh, my shoulders sagging forward. “You’re like a magazine model, Mason. You’re covered in muscles. You’re absolutely perfect.”
“I’m not, but what does that have to do with how you feel about yourself?”
I open my mouth to reply, but I don’t know how to answer at first.
“What would it take for you to believe me and not the asshole who made you feel less than?”
A million filthy things flash through my mind. “You could have anyone,” I whisper.
“I want you.”
I suck in a breath, but even though I want to believe him, I find it hard to. I clear my throat, suddenly warm.
“Here we go,” Amanda, our waitress, says, setting down a plate with two artichokes and a bottle of wine. “It’s good to see you again, Lizzy.” She reaches for my wineglass, but I can see her stolen glances at Mason. He’s a lot to look at, especially since he’s new and drop-dead gorgeous.
“You too, Amanda. This is my friend Mason.”
Her eyes finally land on him and stay there for a minute. “It’s nice to meet you.” Her face flushes as she speaks to him, soaking in his ruggedly handsome face.
“Nice to meet you too,” he says, and when she hands him his glass of wine, he hands it to me, waiting for the next glass for himself.
“If you need anything else, please let me know,” she says to him and not me. I don’t blame her. She sees my face all the time, but a man as good-looking and new as he is doesn’t roll into town very often.
“Thank you,” he tells her, and she quickly disappears.
I stare at the artichoke, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to eat something like that. It looks like a cooked cactus, and nothing about it resembles the ones I buy in the jar.
“You peel off a leaf and use your teeth to scrape everything off,” Mason explains as he plucks off a single piece.
I stare at him as he places it between his lips, slowly pulling it out. It’s kind of erotic and completely messy, but I could seriously watch him eat an artichoke every single day of my life and be a happy woman.
I mimic his movements and am surprised by how easy the leaf comes off.
I stare at it for a beat, looking at the breadcrumbs and whatever else is on it before placing it in my mouth.
There’s an explosion of flavors, and I moan a little before pulling out the leaf, scraping it against my teeth like he did.
It’s odd but surprising how delicious it is.
“My grandma used to make these all the time,” he tells me, reaching for more.
“You’re lucky she’s such a good cook.”
“She’s not.” He laughs and shakes his head. “She’s an okay cook, but she has a few dishes she does well, and artichokes are one of them.”
“I thought she was the main cook in the family.”
“No. Family dinner is a group effort. My grandfather definitely didn’t marry her for her cooking.”
“They’re totally adorable together,” I tell him, wondering what it would be like to be with someone so long.
“They’re something. My grandmother has put up with a lot of shit from Pops. He’s a wild one.”
“Still?” I ask.
“Still.” He nods in confirmation. “He may not be completely in the game anymore, but he’s not all the way out either.”
“The game?” I ask in confusion. “Does he play baseball?”
My question earns me a chuckle from Mason. “No, sweetheart. He’s been involved in things that weren’t always on the up-and-up.”
“The up-and-up?”
“Have you ever watched any mobster movies?”
I shake my head as my mind reels. “I’m more of a rom-com girlie.”
“We’ll need to change that.”
I lean forward and whisper, “Are you saying your grandpa is in the mob?”
“I don’t think he was ever fully in, but he also wasn’t out.”
“You’re confusing me, Mason.” I chuckle too, because surely he has to be pulling my leg. “That sweet man could never…”
“He could and he has. Ask anyone in the family. They know.”
I lean back, my mouth gaping open in complete and utter shock. The man is so damn sweet. He’s truly a Casanova and could charm the pants off anyone, men included. “I can’t believe it,” I mutter.
“You’ll learn,” he says.
“You’re not involved, are you?” I need to know the answer before I let my heart start falling even deeper for the man sitting across from me.
“Never,” he replies quickly.
“Good. Good.”
“Now, eat up. Cold stuffed artichokes aren’t good,” he tells me, pushing the plate in my direction. “I need my girl to have a full belly after such a long day on the road.”
I like being called his girl. I shouldn’t. Neither of us is built for long-distance, but I can’t seem to let myself wonder what it would be like to be loved by a man like him.