I lift my brows, thinking about my crew. “I sincerely doubt that. People are too fearful of me to risk my wrath over a bit of pussy or dick, as the case may be.”
Instantly, I wish I hadn’t phrased it so, because a weight falls between us. I take pride in speaking as an educated man, a man who might not have gone to Yale but still completed his MBA at a perfectly respectable university and who strives to make more of himself than the greaseball wise guy my grandfather was, no offense.
But my poor choice of words reminds Allie of who I am. What I am. The aftermath of the shooting tore the veil from her eyes more than anything else, and I had to reveal just how deep my connections ran. She knows that I’m in charge of East Robinsville, that I’m The Boss, the Don, though nobody uses that antiquated word anymore.
And though her eyes track me the same as they did before, full of restrained lust and a desire to know more about me, I can see that the questions beneath the surface of her attraction are scarier to ask, but they’re ones she wants the answers to all the same.
She deserves those answers, and it’s the other reason I’ve never pushed breaking my rule with her. Any woman who deserves to share my life with me to that level deserves to know. If we go there, she’s going to know what I am, what I do, even if I don’t want her involved.
I think Allie knows this, and she swallows, digging for her courage. My heart leaps as my brave girl finds it and graces me with another angelic smile.
“I would love to have dinner with you. Though not as a part of the agreement. Simply agree to the 75/25 split. You don’t need to manipulate me with money to have dinner with you, Dominick. You . . . you never have.”
My name on her lips is a heavenly hymn my sullied soul doesn’t deserve, but I take it anyway, hoarding it like treasure while at the same time promising myself to make her scream it, sigh it, and sing it, again and again.
The fact that she is agreeing to dinner despite the agreement tells me everything I need to know. Allie wants me, maybe as much as I want her. We’ve been good, as good as we can be, which for me isn’t much, but we’ve followed the rules.
And now it’s time for something else. “Good. Then let’s eat.”
The lilting happy sound of her giggle delights me.
“I didn’t realize you meant right now!” she argues. “I thought you meant you were going to pick me up for dinner sometime.”
I shake my head, standing up reluctantly because I don’t want to be an inch farther apart from her than I have to. I want to feel her breath on my skin forever . . . but I have to order dinner.
“I don’t want to give you time to reconsider. So now it is.”
That’s the God’s-honest truth because I know if I give her a moment to analyze this, she’ll come out on the same side every time. The one where she doesn’t go out with me at all.
So I’m pressing tonight, hoping that by keeping her slightly off balance, I can get more into her psyche, learn more about her, and maybe make her not so frightened of what I am.
Though I strongly suspect that’s an exercise in futility. I pick up my phone, calling my favorite Italian restaurant, one of my own, of course.
“I want one large order of lasagna, salad for two, and a bowl of roasted tomato and basil soup.” I nod as they repeat the order, promising to have it here as quickly as possible. I take the moment to let Thomas know since he’s currently serving as front-door security.
“How’d you know I’d want soup?” Allie asks as I hang up.
Though I know her preferences in and out, I choose to tease her. “Just a lucky guess, I suppose. Though how do you know the soup isn’t for me and the lasagna for you?”
Her smile is one that says she gets my humor, something most people would say I severely lack. “Well played, Dom.”
Sitting back down, I frame her crossed legs with my spread ones again, though I pull her chair closer to mine, caging her in with my thighs.
“So, now that this is dinner,” I say, intentionally not calling it a date because I know she’s still a bit skittish, “tell me something about yourself I don’t know.”
I’m curious what she’ll share, though I already know so much. I want to hear the stories of her past from her own lips.
“Hmm,” she hums, obviously searching her mind as she glances off to the side. If I were a more artistic man, I would insist that she pose for a portrait because her profile is elegant, the slope of her nose giving way to her lush lips, and the graceful length of her neck begging me to nibble.