10. Tiia
Hours pass, my eyes desperately rooted on the front door, and my stomach swirling with nerves as I wait, a sitting duck, for a certain Malone to walk through and torment me.
He said he’d come back for his chest, but didn’t specify a time.
Had he communicated better, perhaps the exchange could have happened at nine this morning, the second I opened the place to the public. We could have done that awkward two-step, and he could have been on his way.
That would have been ideal. Not great, since I don’t particularly relish the idea of seeing him at all. But at least the deed would be done, and the rest of my day could move forward.
But nooooo. Micah Malone isn’t so courteous—though, really, I’m not sure I was na?ve to think he could be.
Ten a.m. passes, and Jakeline gives me the beady eye over the Mongolian wooden chest sitting in the middle of our store like a beating heart, because her bank account is noticeably missing a deposit of sixty-nine thousand dollars.
By eleven a.m., anyone would think I’ve committed cardinal sins against her and her mother.
Twelve noon, and no sign of the mafioso or his money. So while Jakeline skips lunch and sticks around for her financial infusion, I hang on tenterhooks, while simultaneously praying that he stays far, far away.
“What did you do?” Jakeline thunders out of her office at a quarter to one, her hunger pangs in overdrive, but her desire to remain a size two ensuring she starves herself and takes her rage out on me. “Tiia! That sale was guaranteed.”
“No sale is guaranteed.” I avoid looking to the empty chair by the door, so as not to highlight the missing plant I somehow gave away for free.
He didn’t pay for it. He didn’t buy the chest. He just… stole and left.
“He seemed interested, Jakeline. I did my best to entice him,” —to leave— “and he assured me he would be back today. So…” I peer across and fake a sweet smile. “We just have to be patient. If he’s changed his mind, then that’s his prerogative. No sale is certain until money exchanges hands.”
“What did you speak to him about?” She clips her way across the store, around a grand piano that only the truly wealthy could consider owning, and plops her ass on the corner of my desk. “I wanted so badly to stay and listen, but a businesswoman knows when she’s needed and when she’s not.” She steeples her fingers and grins like the Cheshire Cat. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard him mutter more than three words.”
“I would hope not.” I glance down at my printed files, the history about jilted lovers who once made love on the piano Jakeline walked by.
To sell this stuff, I have to know a piece’s life before this shop. Not always is it a desk whose story intrigues me, or a chest whose past saddens me.
“He’s the friggin’ mafia, Jakeline. You should want to keep your distance. I think you’re romanticizing a handsome man, conveniently forgetting the danger he poses.”
“I trust you’ll cling to the sordid details enough for the both of us. You’re obsessed with his criminal past, while I,” she smirks down at her nails, “am far more interested in who he is outside of work.”
“It’s not just work!” I clap my hand to the printouts on my desk. “He doesn’t just clock out, ya know? He doesn’t leave at five and cease to operate within the criminal world. His entire existence revolves around this city’s underbelly. His whole family, and their wealth, stands on the backs of those less fortunate than them. The money he’ll pay for the chest was not earned at a regular job.”
“I imagine he’s quite the accomplished lover,” she purrs, her throat vibrating with the thought as she completely hurdles my argument. “He seems… intelligent and thoughtful, don’t you think? Not like Felix, the figurehead and show pony.”
“You’re folding yourself into a shameless pretzel to avoid acknowledging his family’s guilt.” I push up from my desk. “I have no interest in joining you in your weird, non-logical version of reality. But thanks.”
She slides off my desk and firms her lips into a smug smirk. “Just so you’re aware?—”
The bell above the door jingles, drawing our attention as the door swings open and admits Micah Malone himself.
With a relieved exhale, Jakeline steps up on my left, then whispers, “You blush when he’s within fifty feet of you. Not everyone can tell, because you already have that color to your skin, but I see it.” She wanders away, her heels clacking against tile as she moves toward her next paycheck.
“Mr. Malone.” She damn near curtsies. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Back to complete your purchase?”
“Yes.” One word. A single syllable. And no eyes for the woman who so desperately wants them. Micah looks straight over Jakeline’s head and holds my stare. “Ms. Hale makes the commission, no matter who rings me up?”
“Of course.” Bravely, or stupidly, Jakeline places her hand on his forearm and squeezes, just hard enough to pull his fiery gaze down. “However, I won’t interfere. Ms. Hale would love to finalize the documents and help you out.” Releasing him, she peeks my way. “I’ll be in my office. Once you’re done with Mr. Malone, you’re welcome to take your lunch break.”
“You haven’t eaten?” Micah’s eyes lock onto mine again, and narrow as he looks me up and down. “Did you have breakfast?”
I turn on my heels to hide my scoff, passing it off as a cough. “My diet is hardly your concern. Did you bring a check, Mr. Malone, or would you prefer bank transfer?”
“Transfer.” He strides past Jakeline, oblivious to her ogling observation, and comes around to stop by my desk. Though, I keep my back to him as I search my files for the documents that go with the chest to prove authenticity. “And food.”
“Hmm?” I look over my shoulder and hate that his emerald stare is like a tractor beam.
It sounds so stupid. So fantastical. But his eyes are powerful and, I’m learning, often his preferred method of communication. Unlike the always-talking Jazzy, Micah chooses silence. Surveillance. Action.
Perhaps that’s how he remains alive inside a treacherousworld.
“Food,” he repeats. “It’s lunchtime.”
“Anytime is lunchtime if you try hard enough.” I locate his documents and pull them from my drawer with a flourish. Then straightening my back, I turn and lower into my chair.
I don’t offer him a seat. And I don’t intend to, either. “I’ll eat once we’re done here.”
“We won’t be done here until you’ve eaten.” He drops his hands into his pockets, settling back on his heels, as though at ease. “I won’t pay until you’ve had lunch.”
“Okay, well…” I set my things down, open my top desk drawer, and pull out a granola bar only about four weeks past date. I show it to him the way a child might show off a sticker or an award, then I set down the plastic-wrapped meal, making the packaging crinkle. “I have a meal. And I also have our banking details.”
Picking up a business card I keep on hand for exactly these situations, since reading account details out loud feels a little tactless, I slide the information across my desk. “If you could make payment now, that’d be great.”
“These my authenticity certificates?” Ignoring the card, he leans across to take the file instead. After flipping it open, he peruses for only a moment, his eyes flickering from line to line, his lips moving as he speed-reads. “These come with my purchase?”
“Yes—”
“Excellent.” He spins and starts toward the door.
“Hey!” I shove up from my chair, gritting my teeth when it rolls back and hits the filing cabinet. “Malone! You don’t own those documents until you’ve paid.”
He grabs the door handle and swings the glass wide, the sounds of heavy traffic wafting through a deceptively sound-proofed sheet of glass. “And I won’t pay until you’ve eaten something.”
I point at the granola bar.
He snorts. “Something from outside.” He steps through the door and onto the sidewalk. “Move your ass, Ms. Hale.”
“Get out there, Tiia!” Jakeline strides to the threshold of her office, pointing a threatening finger toward his back. “You get those documents back! Flirting is cute, but unless you get me my money, he’s now in possession of something that does not belong to him—something wildly valuable that cannot be reproduced.”
“But—”
“Go!”
“For god’s sake.” I sprint around my desk, leaving everything behind. My phone. My purse. My life and sanity.
Charging across the shop and through the door, I come to a skidding stop when I find Micah waiting just on the other side.
He smiles when our eyes meet, tucks the file under his left arm, and grabs my elbow with his right hand. “Good choice. Any restaurants nearby you’d recommend?”
“Um…” Stunned, my psyche searches for balance, adjusting from the cool, quiet confines of Colby’s Antiques, to the blistering hot, noisy, smelly streets of New York in the summer. “I don’t?—”
“You like Italian.” Confident, he starts along the sidewalk, commanding space so that even those who don’t recognize him in their rush from Point A to Point B still give his expansive frame a wide berth.
Around us, cars honk as they battle Manhattan traffic, and pedestrians chatter—most often into their phones, and not to the person right beside them.
“Busy day at work?”
I look up at him, getting a view of the underside of his jaw. A front-row seat to his stubbled skin. His thick neck and well-established shoulders. And when I realize I’m staring, I shake my head and ask, “What?”
“Work. Are you busy?”
“Uh… not particularly.” I try to jerk my hand free, but his grip is determined, and I’m not nearly strong enough to be rid of him without making a scene. “Colby’s isn’t really a drop-in kind of store. Most clients have already researched what they want, and make an appointment to see the item they’re interested in. You?”
Curious, he glances down. “Me, what?”
“Work.” I’m so dumb. He works for the mafia! “Busy?” Yeah, stupid! Busy being a criminal.
“Just another day in paradise,” he chuckles, loosening his grip on my arm so his fingers become a caress instead of a pinching pain. “Biano’s is still a few blocks from here, but—” He stops on a dime and turns us toward the street, because directly on the other side is a sign with red, green, and white lettering. “Does Barone’s work for you?”
“Um… sure.”
He leads us into traffic, strolling between crawling cars like he’s unafraid of being flattened. Unafraid of me being flattened. Once we’re across and on the sidewalk, he strides through the front door of the restaurant, into blissful air-conditioning, and merely waits.
One Mississippi, servers look our way.
Two Mississippi, the whispers begin.
Three Mississippi, finally, someone appears in front of us with a grin that says he knows exactly who has walked into his establishment today.
“Mr. Malone.” He gives a short, sharp bow, then looks to me. “Madam. This way, please.”
He twirls on his heels and bypasses the regular seating area, where diners look up from their pizza and pasta to stare. We follow him through a doorway and into an obviously more exclusive seating area, where no one else occupies.
The server pulls a chair out from a table for two and makes a show of waiting for me to step forward.
But instead of releasing me, Micah nods to the back corner. “Over there.”
Our host follows his gaze to a booth nestled in the shadowed corner. Finally, he shoves the chair back in, and darts across like it was his destination all along. “Of course, sir. Can I start you with a glass of wine?” He doesn’t mention Micah’s gripping hand. The brute strength he displays as he leads me into the booth and sits too close to me, so I’m trapped between his body and a solid wall. “Water? Soda, perhaps?”
Immediately, I respond, “Wat?—”
“White wine,” Micah interrupts. “Semillon Sauvignon. And we’ll order our food now, too. We’re in a rush.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I can’t drink!” I fix my dress, covering my thighs and dragging the fabric beneath my butt, then push my empty wine glass aside, shaking my head when the server’s cheeks pale.
How dare I defy his master?
“It’s the middle of a workday,” I press. “I’m not drinking.”
“One glass.” Micah peers to the server. “Gnocchi. With mushrooms. And a supreme pizza. My usual.”
“Your usual?” I turn on the seat, my knee almost touching his thigh, as he sets the chest’s files on the table and dismisses the server. “You have a usual?”
“Seems that way.” He opens the folder and peruses the contents. “I meant to come see you earlier, by the way, but I got caught up with something else.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t. Ask. “Working?”
His lips curl, pushing his cheeks up so I catch the movement in profile. “Something like that. Are you dating Roscoe?”
I jolt in my seat, my entire frame spasming in protest. “What?”
“Roscoe, the guy whose chest you cried on after I said mean things to you. Is he who you had a date with last night?”
“Um…” I swallow, the lump in my throat so large and painful, it almost steals my breath on the way down. “I don’t…”
“It’s a simple question.” He closes the file and sets his hands on top; both of them. Not just the good one, but the hand someone clearly abused earlier this year. “Requires a simple answer. Is Roscoe your boyfriend?”
“No…?”
Why, why do I speak my words as though they’re a question?
“Your lover?”
“No.”
“Was he who you ate with last night after I left the store?”
I look across the restaurant, to the door we came through—empty—then to another, where the server disappeared into—also empty.
“Tiia?”
“Yes.” Licking my dry lips, I bring my focus back to the man whose very existence makes my stomach knot with nerves. “Yes, he was who I ate with last night.”
“A date?”
“Someone I enjoy spending time with. What kept you this morning?”
I stun him with my question. Silence him momentarily, as he snaps his mouth shut and looks down into his lap.
“I mean, you seem to think it’s okay to ask me about my work,” I blaze on. “Surely, those lines of communication are open and equal for us both.”
He scoffs, soft and playful, as he sits back and sets his arm over the top cushion. Not quite draped on my shoulder, but, jesus, not far from it either. “I’d much rather talk about you. That guy Roscoe… Is it a casual, sometimes thing, or are you committed?”
“Does it matter to you?” Shut up, shut up, shut up! “And even if it does, what makes you think you’re entitled to information about my private life?”
“I’m an inquisitive man by nature. And you’re a beautiful woman. I’m curious.”
“Because you consider me beautiful.” I snatch the menu from the table, despite Micah already having decided what I’ll eat. “So aesthetics are all that count? Would you be nearly as curious if I was ugly?”
“Perhaps.” He narrows his eyes, but this time, I don’t feel suspicion in his gaze. Rather, wonder. Interest. “I’ve never pigeonholed myself, as far as the women who make me look twice. Redhead. Blonde. Brunette.” He studies the hair settled on top of my shoulder and pinches the very ends between his fingers. “Blue eyes. Brown.” He stops and grins. “Silver. I can’t say I’ve ever settled on a type before, so whether you were heavier, shorter, or had a different face, I think your attitude and mind might still catch my attention.”
“How many types have you had in your bed?”
Dammit, Tiia! Shut. Up.
He smirks, lifting his shoulder in what could only be considered a shrug. “Dunno. You and Roscoe?”
“Committed to what we have.” I lift my chin in defiance. “But the details are for him and me only. We owe no one else an explanation.”
“What does ippo mean?” He releases my hair and tilts his head to the side. “I heard him shout it when you called him last night.”
“Ipo?” I hate that my nerves tremble. Especially because I’m not entirely confident they’re ‘he’s gonna kill me’ nerves; it’s possible they’re ‘he’s staring a lot and I’m not sure how I feel about it’ nerves. “It means ‘sweetheart,’ mostly. He’s called me ipo since forever.”
Micah’s eyes widen, from tightened contemplation to something else entirely. “You’ve known him a long time, then?”
“Most of my life.”
I glance up when the server bustles through the door again, my stomach clawing at my throat as hunger overrides my better senses, and the scent of mushrooms and garlic slam me the way a prizefighter’s fist might hit his opponent.
Dropping my hands, I press my palm to my belly as it audibly grumbles. Because maybe I skipped breakfast today, too anxious about the meeting promised by a different prizefighter.
Metaphorically, of course.
“You’re starving.” The instant the server sets my heaped bowl on the table, Micah slides it in front of me and places a fork on the side. “Eat. Don’t burn yourself.” He looks up. “Our wine?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll bring it right away.” The server pivots and darts out of the room, the door swinging in his wake with a schwoop, schwoop, schwoop.
“Will you tell me what happened to your hand yet?” I know I risk starvation. Perhaps even death. So I pick up the fork and stab a gnocchi before the plate is taken away in punishment. Then I look to the man on my left, but he hardens his expression and places his hand in his lap, as though embarrassed.
“You ask about my life,” I press. “My relationships. You hound me at my workplace, and call me all sorts of slanderous things, unprovoked.” I toss the piping hot potato pasta into my mouth and hss-hss-hss around the heat. “Seems you’ve arrived at a point of acceptance, as far as who I say I am. Don’t I deserve answers now?”
“Do you think you deserve answers?” He reaches across and takes a gnocchi with his fingers, plopping the morsel on his tongue and sucking the creamy white sauce from his fingertips.
Thick lips, broad fingers… and a tongue that spews venomous words.
And yet, just as I study the artifacts we sell at Jakeline’s shop, I study the man who practically crushes me against the wall.
Micah Malone is intelligent. Articulate. A successful businessman, if one can set aside what that business is.
Damn his attractive mind. And his hands, large enough to tempt a woman to look twice.
“I think…” Stealing my eyes from his mouth, I search my plate instead, which holds enough food for four, and pick up another piece. “I think we crossed paths a month ago because the universe felt like screwing with me. It tossed you into my life, like I didn’t already have a busy schedule. And then you said some pretty unkind things, and did some pretty unkind things, even though I didn’t deserve them. So I think us tiptoeing around who you are and what you do for a living would be silly and verging on childish. Like a game of make-believe.”
He swallows his gnocchi and raises a brow in question.
“We’re both reasonably intelligent, sensible people,” I explain. “Circling the facts would be a waste of time for us both.”
“Alright…”
He glances up when the server brings out a bottle of wine and two fresh crystal glasses. He sets them down, his movements quick and harsh, and pours with a glugging intensity, filling the glasses far past standard. He gulps when Micah reaches out with his mutilated hand to hold the stem.
“Thank you, Frederick.” He slides the first glass across to settle by my plate, then the second closer to his still empty portion of the table. “My pizza?”
“On the way, sir.” Frederick plops the bottle on the table and spins away again in a frenzy.
“So, you think you know what there is to know about me.” Picking up his glass, Micah swirls the contents, examining the white liquid as it kisses the rim. “And you object to me asking about your private life?”
“I don’t object to your questions, exactly.” When in Rome, and all that. I place my fork down and replace it with my wine. “But I object to an imbalance of power. Up to this point, you’ve run the show. Spewing harsh words, hurting feelings…. Holding a knife to my throat? The first two crossed a line, but the third?” I bring my wine up and sip. “Unforgivable.”
“Unforgivable… forever?”
“Until you’ve proven yourself to be a better man.” I inhale a deep whiff of my wine and smile as the fruity aroma tickles the base of my throat. “So far, except for your interest in a special and exceptionally expensive piece of history, you’ve yet to prove yourself anything other than spoiled, violent, and rude.”
“You’re not apt to soften your words, I see.” He brings his own wine up and takes a small sip. “You’re not afraid of me?”
Pissing my pants, actually.
But telling him so would be a mistake.
“If you wanted me dead, I believe you’d have done so when you had a knife pressed to my throat. Since you didn’t… and have behaved like a reasonably measured, rational citizen since, I can only assume your homicidal tendencies, toward me, no longer exist. As for me deserving to know what happened to your hand…” I set down my glass and pick up my fork again. Stabbing a piece of gnocchi, I lift it from the rest and give it a moment to cool. “I think telling me that story might be an exercise in trust. And luckily for us both, I’ve actually done nothing to make you think me dishonest. So…” I toss the gnocchi into my mouth, and grin. “What happened?”
“Some asshole hurt me…” For the first time ever in my presence, he lifts his left hand and flexes it for me to see. He squeezes his remaining fingers, so the skin stretches over his knuckles, then releases the tension. Though, I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches. “Someone who was angry at my family. He wanted retribution, and I was his chosen pig out for slaughter.”
“Slaughter?” Intrigued, I turn on my seat, lifting my leg to the cushion and resting my knee against his firm, muscular thigh. “I don’t mean to minimize your distress and pain. But slaughter? That implies death.”
He points to his shoulder, though he doesn’t move his shirt or jacket aside. “A nine-millimeter slug.” Then down to his forearm. “Fractured, still healing.” He points to his ribs. “Countless lacerations. And to add insult to injury, one of the stitches was rejected by my body and got infected.” He rests his hand on the table and shrugs. “Or something. I dunno. I slept through a lot of it and let the doctor carry that mental load.”
Swallowing, he glances up as Frederick bustles through the door with a steaming pizza, then he moves the files from the table to make room for his lunch to be set down. He says nothing more while the server is within earshot.
When we’re alone again, I ask, “All of those wounds came at the same time?” I don’t reach across and touch his hand, though a tiny, suicidal part of me wants to. But I do lean closer and angle my head to get a better look. “And from the same people?”
He nods. “A few months back. Everything is healed… or healing,” he adds as an afterthought. “My hand is the only one people see on the regular.”
“Who hurt you?” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth and stare at his missing digit. The stitch marks, still visible, even if the stitches themselves are gone. The quarter-inch nub left over. The scarily white pallor at the end, where the rest of his finger should be. “Why?”
“Someone who no longer matters.” He uses his damaged hand to pick up a slice of pizza, then he folds it in half like a heathen. “For reasons that no longer matter. Which college did you go to?”
My brows pinch tight, surprise rolling through my mind like words in an echo chamber. “Huh?”
“College.” He takes a bite of pizza and slowly chews. “To work in antiques, I assume you need an education. Education typically means college.”
“Brown University.” I spear another gnocchi, since I guess we’re both eating now, and toss it onto my tongue. “You?”
He snorts, shaking his head before the sound even fully leaves his lips. “I didn’t go to college.”
“But you’re educated. I mean…” How do I say you’re mafia, without saying you’re mafia? “Perhaps your job isn’t as IRS-friendly as mine. But we can both acknowledge you have a functioning brain. Word going around is that you invest heavily in the stock market too.”
“Too?” He chuckles. “My stock-market ventures are reported to the IRS cleanly. The rest…”
“Not exactly polite conversation topics. No college?”
“No time,” he admits. “No desire. But I research whatever shit I’m heading toward so I can make sound decisions. Mostly.”
“You didn’t research me.” I place my fork down and swap it for using my fingers. My food has cooled enough, and the act of licking the sauce from my fingers makes my meal tastier. It’s odd and unscientific, but it’s my stance, all the same. “You made assumptions about me that were wholly wrong.”
“A lesson learned,” he concedes. “And the very reason I research something before showing my ass. You caught me off guard, it would seem.”
I snicker—Why am I smiling? Am I on a date? What the fuck!—and bring my gaze down to my plate. “I hope you’re embarrassed. Your behavior since we met has been less than appropriate. Your mother would surely be ashamed.”
Like day and night, his eyes find mine, fire burning deep inside his until my stomach jolts. “My mother is dead, Ms. Hale. Surely you know that, since you’re so educated.” He picks up his wine and takes a long drink, halving the contents without taking a breath. Then, setting the glass down, he reclines back and looks anywhere but at me. “Have you always wanted to work with antiques?”
“Um…” My heart thunders, my nervous system brutally aware of how close to death I come with every ballsy question I ask.
“Antiques.” He looks across, impatience glittering in his stare. “You always wanted to serve rich fuddy-duddies, and work for a woman who would throw you in front of a train if it made her look special?”
I choke out a soft laugh, shaking my head and reaching out for a new piece of gnocchi. Because hell if he isn’t right. “Antiques, yes. Jakeline Colby… No. That was just one of those right places at the right time kind of things.”
“Or wrong place,” he counters, “wrong time. Colby would toss you over for a fat-free candy bar. It’s not safe, surrounding yourself with people who lack loyalty.”
“Well… in theory, perhaps. But I live a regular life. On the legal side of the law. So while you may have enemies you need protection from, my biggest threat is Jazzy stealing my vodka mixers, or Roscoe locking me away from everyone else.”
Micah’s eyes turn to terrifying slits, his calm silence, as loud as a red light and a sirenbleating Danger! Danger! “He isolate you against your will often, Tiia?”
“Um…” Shit! “No, I?—”
He drops his pizza back to the plate and turns my way, so our legs almost intertwine. “Because I could take care of it for you.”
“Take care of it?” My pulse thunders. My stomach whooshes. My brain spins out of control, making it damn near impossible to formulate a sensible, rational thought. “J-just like that? For a woman you consider your enemy.”
“Not my enemy. And I’m not gonna lay the specifics out right here in a restaurant.” He looks down into our laps, his eyes scraping my exposed thighs, even as I fuss with my dress to make sure I’m adequately covered. “But I think we’re both educated enough to know you don’t have to tolerate any shit in your life. If Roscoe is a problem for you, then you say the word, and I’ll fix it.”
“Are you a man for hire?” I bring my gaze up and lock onto his emerald stare. “I give you money, you give me freedom?”
“I’d give you freedom because I won’t stand to see a woman in a bad situation. And if Roscoe is the reason for yours, then that’s the way it’s gonna go down.” He sits back, relaxation coming to him like flipping a switch as he grins and picks up his pizza. “I’m sure he’ll back off when I tell him he’s not being very nice.”
Okay, but, like… does Roscoe get to live after that?
“Eat.” He takes a bite of pizza and studies the door we came through.
His nose and lips strike a profile I think I could pick out in a crowd of millions. His jawline, square. His hair, just long enough to be roguish. He chews and swallows, so the movement draws my eyes to his throat as the lump works its way down.
But then a small dot, out of place against his tan skin, pulls my focus. A crimson spot, standing out like a buoy in the sea.
Leaning closer, I know he feels the warmth of my stare when I come within six inches of his neck.
“What?” He brings his right hand up and cups his neck, though he misses the subject of my interest. “What’s the problem?”
“Is that blood?” I tilt my head the other way and wonder how this man ended up with a spot of blood on his skin—and not the kind of spot one might get after nicking themselves shaving. “You have blood on you, Micah.”
“Time to go.” He shoves up from the booth and folds a fresh slice of pizza in half. For the road, I suppose. Then he chugs the last of his wine before placing the glass down, and tugs me out behind him. “Bring your plate if you’re still hungry.”
“Wait—” I stumble when he pulls me out of the booth, and risk rolling my ankle when he releases me. But while I glance around, dumbfounded by his quick actions, he tosses cash on the table and picks up my plate for me.
“Eat and walk. I have things to do this afternoon, and you have a sale to make.” He snatches up the file from Jakeline’s shop, then he starts away. “Let’s go.”