Page 17 of It Hurts Me
I looked at the glass for a moment before I grabbed it and downed it in one go.
One eyebrow lifted slightly in gentle surprise, but the rest of his face retained its hardness. “You drink scotch.”
“Sometimes.” I returned the glass to the coffee table.
He didn’t interrogate me like he said he would. Just let me feel the pressure of his presence.
There was a tightness in my chest, a mixture of excitement and guilt and sorrow. When Bolton said he wanted an open marriage, I hadn’t thought of Theo and grown anxious for that prospect, but now that I was with him…I entertained the idea. “So…how about that dinner?”
When I arrived at the restaurant, he was already there.
He sat at a table by the window, covered in a white tablecloth, a single candle burning low in the center. It was a nicer place, but he wore a long-sleeved black shirt and dark jeans like he didn’t care.
I liked that he didn’t care.
I stared at him before he noticed me, seeing the way his massive body took up the chair, the way he looked out the window and stared at the people outside, his eyes dark like the night.
I hadn’t been nervous like this in a long time. Bolton had left for a mission, so he was out of the house and elsewhere…and I didn’t know where he would sleep that night. I had no problem being alone and sleeping in our bed by myself while he was gone, but now it hit different.
I approached the table, and he turned to look at me, his eyes slowly dropping down my body to study the way my curves filled out the dress. He didn’t rise to pull out the chair for me like a gentleman.
I liked that too.
I set my clutch on the end of the table and felt my heart try to jump out of my chest.
He stared at me with his hard silence, perfectly comfortable breathing the tense air around us even though it was like a cloud of black smoke.
“I’ve never tried this place before,” I said. “It’s good?”
“I hope so.” He grabbed the wine list. “Would you like to share a bottle of wine?”
“I’m not really in a wine mood tonight.” Wine was calm and relaxing, heightening the experience of the food you consumed. But every muscle in my body was so tense, they were all about to lock up.
“Scotch it is.” He got the attention of a waitress the second he looked across the room. When she came over, he immediately ordered two glasses of scotch on the rocks, and she disappeared. A moment later, she returned and placed the drinks in front of us. “Never met a woman who likes scotch.”
“I only drink it occasionally.” After Bolton and I had a huge fight. On the nights when I felt so alone it seemed like I was the only person in the whole world. Right before bed when I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t remember my dreams.
“People drink scotch for a reason,” he said. “And I think I know what your reason is.”
I deflected the observation by taking a drink and letting the liquor hit my tongue. It was smooth on the way down but then burned when it reached the bottom. It was like liquid fire, but I’d felt that kick enough times not to react to it. “You don’t seem like the kind of man interested in art.”
“The blood of a dictator pumps in my veins, and my heart was born in the birthplace of the Renaissance. I don’t possess an ounce of artistic ability, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a deep reverence for it.”
Floored by what he said, I repeated his words in my mind just so I could hear it again.
“You must appreciate art if you work in a gallery. You don’t need the money.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The car you drive.”
It was a Porsche SUV, one of the high-end models. The downpour hadn’t hidden the details from him.
“The clothes and jewelry you wear,” he said. “The way you carry yourself. It’s all there.”
My fingers rested on the top of my glass, but I didn’t take a drink, knowing if I drank it too fast on an empty stomach, I would get smashed and make an idiot out of myself in front of the sexiest man who ever lived.
“Answer the question.” He never asked for what he wanted, just demanded it in a gentle manner.