Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
Inquiring about it will have to be one of my questions at some point tonight, but I’ve got a much better starting point.
“Fine, I’ll play your game,” I say. By the way Salvatore’s face hardens while he stares at the phone, he needs a distraction from whatever landed him in Crawford. “I’ll start. You’re not married, are you?”
“Married?” His head snaps back to me, and the sternness in his eyes vanishes with a chuckle. “No, I’m not. Why is that your jumping-off point?”
“Oh, y’know, the way you’re looking at me. The thousand-yard stare at whoever is calling. I can go on and on with a list of reasons, but mostly, it’s because of how you’re looking at me. I’m not the home-wrecking sort and wanted to be sure I wasn’t crossing a line.” Purely for my own sake.
I don’t expect anything but a few sheepish glances from both of us to happen tonight. But even those would leave me feeling a lot more dirty if he had a wife waiting at home.
“Are you?” Salvatore looks at my hands wrapped around the glass of whiskey and water. Probably trying to see if there’s a ring or ring lines. His tone, however, expresses his profound distaste for the possibility of a yes leaving my lips.
Heartbroken before an answer even comes.
“No. Never had time to marry, and don’t suppose I will anytime soon. Between the shop, hunting with my dad, and helping cook up the meat with my mom on weekends, I’ve got my hands full.”
“Ah, so you know how to handle big things that shoot in spurts? Good to know.” He chuckles at his own joke and immediately looks at me, flabbergasted. “God, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”
Neither do I, but I like it more than I’m willing to admit. A silly joke with filthy connotations that doesn’t even make sense in the context of what we’re talking about? Somehow, Salvatore’s checking every box to make our shut-in way more fun.
“No need for apologies. I’m probably at fault, giving those burning eyes an easy line on these.” I shake my chest a little to push my message across before erupting into a loud laugh to hide my reddening cheeks.
Salvatore grin widens at my gesture, and he eases back in his chair. “I could think of a few things to improve the view. But this is a diner, not a sleazy sports bar.”
A wink follows, and for a brief second, I consider giving in to those desires. It would be so easy to toss my shirt to the side and change the drinking portion of this game to stripping instead. I wouldn’t mind seeing what he’s packing beneath that expensive suit.
“Anyway, back to the game.” Salvatore snaps me back to reality. “You said you go hunting every weekend. Isn’t that a hell of a lot of meat for a family of three?”
“It is, but we sell the rest off to the butcher. It’s a good way to make extra cash, and it helps our community. A win-win, if I’ve ever seen one.” I watch Salvatore take another swallow of whiskey. He doesn’t even grimace at its foul taste.
Now I can’t stop wondering if he really doesn’t mind it or if he’s putting on a show to impress me. That he’s so hard and calloused, nothing can penetrate his iron facade.
Whatever the case, I find myself more and more into it.
“Your turn,” he says as he adjusts in his chair and closes the gap between us by propping himself up on his elbows over the counter.
Before I have a chance to think of my next question, though they aren’t too hard to come by with a complete stranger, his phone starts to vibrate on the counter again.
His head begrudgingly turns to it, and mine does too. The ID reads, Dante.
“Why aren’t you answering it?” No time like the present. Or maybe, deep down, I know he doesn’t want to answer this question, and it’ll force him to drink. Our night might take a far more interesting turn if I plaster him with liquor.
“It’s a work call.” He sounds grim.
“Isn’t that more reason to answer, then?” Without thinking, I extend my hand and press it against his arm reassuringly. Mostly for him, but a little bit for me to feel the rock-solid mass of muscle he calls a bicep.
“When you do what I do, it’s good to know your limits. I reached that point earlier tonight, and well, let’s just say no good can come from answering it right now.” His focus moves away from the phone to my hand brushing against him.
Salvatore’s own hand raises from beneath the desk, and he presses his rough fingers against my forearm gently. An audible gulp follows as it turns into a squeeze.
“And what do you do that’s so bad you have to cut yourself out of reality for a while?” I try to match his seriousness with my tone. Even though I haven’t sensed any danger since he came into my bar, I can tell he’s a dangerous man just by looking at him.