Chapter 4 #3
“I am still reviewing the details.”
That almost got a smile out of her, but she suppressed it with visible effort.
She sat back slightly. “You don’t get to charm your way out of this just because you’ve decided to become self-aware in the last ten seconds.”
“I wasn’t aware I was charming.”
“You’re not. You’re being rude, territorial, and very strange.”
That was fair enough that I let it pass.
“You disappeared,” she added, and then seemed to realize she had said too much because her mouth closed immediately after.
I stilled.
There it was.
“You noticed,” I said quietly.
Her expression closed. “That is not the point.”
“It is part of it.”
She exhaled through her nose and pushed her glasses back up, buying herself a second. “You met me once, Pietro. Once. I don’t even know your last name and then you vanished for over a week, came back out of nowhere, inserted yourself into my table like some kind of?—”
She stopped, clearly searching for a word severe enough.
“Interloper?” I offered.
“Exactly,” she snapped. “And then you acted like Daniel was the problem.”
I held her gaze. “He was sitting in my chair.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Your chair?”
“In a broad, spiritual sense.”
That did it. A reluctant laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and just as quickly she looked annoyed at herself for letting it happen.
She shook her head once, but the warmth had gone unsteady now, tangled up with something else. Caution.
So when I spoke again, I let the humor fall away.
“Pietro Benetti. And you’re right.”
That caught her attention more effectively than denial would have.
“I was rude,” I said. “And I overstepped. Daniel did not deserve it, and neither did you.”
For a moment she just looked at me, suspicion in every muscle.
Then she asked, “Why?”
There were at least six possible answers to that, ranging from embarrassing to incriminating.
I chose the one I could live with.
“Because I saw the jacket and disliked him immediately.”
Her lips parted.
I went on before dignity could intervene. “I am aware that my behavior lacked grace.”
She stared at me for a long second, then huffed out something halfway between a laugh and disbelief.
“That’s your apology?”
“No. That was context.”
“And the apology?”
“I am sorry.”
The words settled between us. Plain. Unadorned. She didn’t know how rarely these words escaped my mouth and how much more rarely I meant them.
She studied me carefully, as though testing whether I meant them.
Finally, she looked down at her coffee. “You scared me today.”
The admission was quiet, but I heard the truth in it. Fear of what I might turn into.
“That was not my intention,” I said.
“I know.” She traced one finger around the cardboard sleeve of her cup. “That might be worse.”
I frowned slightly. “Explain.”
She hesitated. Then, with the caution of someone handing over more than she wanted to, she said, “Because men who don’t mean to be controlling usually think that excuses it.”
I froze.
There it was. Not the whole story, but enough.
When I answered, my voice came out quieter than before. “It does not.”
Her eyes lifted to mine then, searching, measuring.
“No,” she said after a beat. “It doesn’t.”
For a moment the noise of the café seemed to pull back from us. Cups, voices, chairs scraping over tile, all of it fading under the weight of that small exchange.
Then, because anything else would have been cowardice, I said, “Have dinner with me.”
She blinked. “You really know how to pick your timing.”
“I’m trying honesty. It appears to be the less disastrous strategy.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“It does,” I agreed. “But dinner would help me gather evidence.”
This time she did smile, though it was smaller, more cautious.
“You are impossible.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“I’m sure.”
I waited. That, more than the apology, was probably what made the difference. She noticed that too. I could see it in the way some of the tension left her shoulders.
“When?” she asked.
A ridiculous amount of satisfaction went through me.
“Tonight.”
She gave me a look. “Absolutely not.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“You’re very confident for a man who has only just stopped behaving badly.”
“I have recovered well.”
“You have recovered suspiciously fast.”
“One of my better qualities.”
She shook her head, but I could already see the decision forming.
“Tomorrow,” she said at last. “Dinner. Somewhere public.”
That last part was telling.
I inclined my head. “Of course.”
“And no ambushing me if I happen to speak to another human male before then.”
I considered arguing that this was overly restrictive, decided it was unwise, and said, “I’ll do my best.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That was not reassuring.”
“It was honest.”
To my surprise, she laughed, that same warm, unguarded sound that had stayed with me since the first day. It settled into me with dangerous ease.
“Tomorrow,” she repeated, still looking faintly unconvinced by her own decision.
“Tomorrow.” I agreed.
She looked as unsettled by wanting to say yes as I had been by asking.
That pleased me a great deal more than it should have.