Lie (Betrothed 8)

“Caesar salad is fine.” He placed the menu on top of mine. “Add chicken.”

The waiter walked away.

I continued to drink from my glass, but I knew I had to pace myself. Getting belligerently drunk was never a good idea when I was around a stranger.

After our questions were answered, there wasn’t much more to say. But he continued to stare at me, as if he’d just asked a question and still hadn’t received an answer.

“So, you and my brother are still enemies?”

He nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“You can always change that if you want to.”

He gave his answer by shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. Our hatred runs too deep now.”

“If that’s true, the last thing I should be doing is sitting here right now.” I came from a family that believed strongly in loyalty and commitment, and if this guy was really an enemy to my brother, then he was an enemy of mine.

“Probably.”

“So, can I leave?”

He took another sip and licked his lips. “You aren’t the kind of woman to ask for permission.”

“No. But based on our history, I haven’t had a lot of freedom…”

“Yes.” His low voice was deep, like a hole that went all the way to the center of the earth. “You can do whatever you want.”

But I continued to stay…for inexplicable reasons. I told myself it was the food, but that wasn’t true.

He stared at me in a way no one else ever had before. He wasn’t afraid to give me his full attention, stare at me with such focus that I felt like the only woman in the room. I got a lot of male admiration, but this was such a concentrated and potent amount, it rivaled the attention of every other man in the world. His blue eyes were pretty, but also deadly. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

“I’m not going to abandon those ravioli.”

He looked at me like he didn’t believe my excuse, but he didn’t call me out on it. “How long have you been a dancer?”

Was this the same man who locked me in a cage and fed me a bagel for breakfast? The same one who choked me out and tried to put me under so he could take me? Now, he was asking me questions like we were on a date or something. “All my life.”

“And how long has that life lasted?”

“Twenty-five years.”

“You’re wise beyond your years.”

It was an odd observation to make, so I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you well enough. Most people don’t think on their feet clearly like you do. They become overwhelmed and lose focus. You always look for a way out, even attacked me with a plunger, which really wasn’t the worst idea. And I watched you at the bar all night. When a guy, regardless of his size, treats you like garbage, you don’t put up with it. You stand up for yourself. You get big and loud. You act like a woman in her fifties rather than her twenties in that regard.”

My eyebrows slowly relaxed as I listened, and then I pulled my glass closer to myself because I needed a drink. “Did you just give me a compliment?”

“I simply observed your behavior.” He took a drink from his glass until it was empty. “It’s positive by nature, not by description.”

“Whatever. It sounds like a compliment. A lot of guys get annoyed with me because I am… How do they say it? Difficult. Opinionated. Annoying.”

“They just don’t like it when a woman calls them out on their shit.” He set the empty glass at the edge of the table so the waiter would know he needed another.

I swirled my wine before I took a drink. “I called you out on your shit.”

“And I liked it.”

My fingers stopped caressing my glass, and I stared at him for a moment of silence. I suddenly felt tense, like the nature of the conversation had shifted in a whole new direction. “You aren’t my type.”

He didn’t react whatsoever. And he also didn’t try to pretend his words meant something else. “What’s your type?”

“Tall, muscular, stubble along his jawline…”

“Alright, check all the boxes.”

I pointed at my chin. “You’ve got nothing going on here.”

“Give me a few days. Problem solved.” When the waiter didn’t come, he took matters into his own hands. He raised his hand slightly then snapped his fingers.

The waiter ran over like a hungry dog. “Let me refill this for you.” He returned to the bar, grabbed a fresh glass, and made it a double for making him wait. He dropped it off before disappearing once more.

“I’ve never had a thing for tattoos…and you have a lot of them.”

“Ever been with a man with ink?”

I shook my head.

“Then you’ll change your mind.” He grabbed his new glass and tilted it back so the amber liquid flooded his tongue and then his throat.