CHAPTER 16 – ANTONIO
I spent last night in the depths of despair. Ryan is back. That means everything is back. Not just the memories, but the self-doubt too.
I can’t shake the idea that I deserved the bullying. Even the principal told me I should stop “provoking” Ryan.
I was so confused.
All I wanted was for Ryan to leave me alone, but what if the principal was right? What if Ryan’s daily taunts, the various ways he kept hurting me, were reactions to my existence?
I sigh, tie my apron, and get ready for my shift.
“Gotta run an errand,” Maria says, already at the door. “Fifteen minutes max.”
“It’s the lunch hour lull. I’ll manage.”
Famous last words.
I pick up two carbonaras for table three. I’m threading between tables four and five when the bell over the door jingles.
I look up automatically.
This time, I nearly drop the plates.
Caspian Stone just stepped in.
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.”
I stare at him. Is he having a stroke?
“You want garlic knots?”
Relieved, he nods.
“Okay,” I say, scribbling it down carefully like it’s the most complicated order I have ever received.
I’m going to ignore what he said about being single.
That did not happen.
He doesn’t wait for me to show him to his table. He rushes on with his order, asking for cheesecake and risotto in a breathless tumble of words.
Then he stops as abruptly as he started.
I think his system crashed.
I think my system is on fire.
Every few seconds his gaze flicks to my mouth, then away.
“Drink?” I ask, trying to stick to the script, but feeling like the weakest link in an impro show.
“Drink?” he repeats.
His eyes drop to my lips again.
Then, softly, reverently, he breathes out, “Yes.”
Yes to what? To water? To the concept of liquid?
What’s wrong with him?
I seat him at a corner table.
He thanks me profusely.
I bring the water carafe and pour him a glass in what must be the most awkward water-pouring event in human history.
He looks at the water like it’s holy and gulps it down immediately.
I watch his throat, then catch myself.
Do not look at him! He’s dangerous. Like the sun.
My pulse refuses to settle.
Having Caspian Stone thank me quietly every time I pass feels unreal.
It’s maddening.
By the time he’s finished, I’m barely holding it together. Especially when it turns out he wasn’t finished after all.
The absurdity is just starting.
Staring at me, he clears his throat.
“Could I get—”
He falters, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Three coffees, please?”
That’s it.
The bottle pops.
He opens his mouth again, but I stop him before he orders a partridge in a pear tree.
“What exactly are you playing at?” I hiss .
He looks genuinely startled.
“I wasn’t—” He stops, his throat working.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
I watch him.
Maybe he was tackled too many times while playing football. Maybe it resulted in a restaurant behavior disorder that manifests through excessive ordering.
I don’t know.
I’m a history major, not a doctor.
As politely as I can, I ask, “Is there someone I could call for you? A guardian?”
The look on his face is pure, R-rated horror.
He stands up so fast he almost knocks over the chair, throws money on the table and bolts.
I stand there, staring at the door, my order pad clenched in my hands.
What. Was. That.