Page 13 of Burning Caine
She continued to frown for the slightest moment, then laughed again.
“But here is the important question,” I said. “Do you feel better than when you left the table with your evil, nasty, ugly, wart-faced date?”
She rolled her eyes again and shook her head slowly. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”
I extended a hand into the small space between us. “You are most welcome. My name is—”
She held up her hand instead of meeting mine. “No.”
“No?”
“You’re nice and you’re funny. But I have enough friends already, and I’m not interested in more.” She laid the hand against her diaphragm, taking in a deep breath. “Like I said, I’m only in town for eight more months anyway. So, there you go.”
Unexpected. I was not accustomed to rejections anymore, especially not when there was such delectable chemistry. Her sister was encouraging her to date, so she was not in a committed relationship. Her attraction to me was clear. Maybe she was shy.
I grabbed my wine glass and raised it between us. “How about a compromise?”
She tilted her head but didn’t pick up her glass.
I inclined my head toward it. “It’s rude to refuse a toast. You and I have both suffered enough rudeness for today.”
Suppressing another smile, she moved her glass toward me, holding the stem while it remained on the bar. Likely to hide the tremble.
“To fate. If it brings us together again within the month, you will owe me a date.”
She stared at her glass, while mine hovered between us. Her jaw clenched and unclenched a few times. What was running through her head? Was the date idea too much?
“Or drinks. Or coffee. Anything.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. She met my glass with hers and took a sip. “To anything.”
She slid out of her chair and I did the same, close enough our bodies nearly touched. Almost as tall as me in her low heels. Statuesque. She looked at the floor, then back to me for the briefest moment, smiling. She rubbed her palms over her pant legs one more time. So nervous. So beautiful. So close I could almost taste her.
“Thanks for cheering me up.” She tilted her head up to me again and time stalled.
It could only have been a breath or two, but there was a feeling of rightness to the moment. Being there with her, my universe rediscovered its axis. Papa had been correct about my life being unfulfilled. But standing there with her—with Roman Art Girl after all these years—everything changed.
And then she walked away, unphased by a moment apparently only I was having.
I stared after her, mesmerized. Ten feet away, she stood taller, moving like a predator. Strong, confident, head sweeping from side to side, taking in her surroundings. She said she could have handled hitting him and the way she moved echoed her words.
I had to talk to someone. Now. Tell them about her. I dialed my sister, unable to calm the smile making my cheeks hurt.
“Antonio, I’m just putting Nico to bed. What do you want?”
“I met her!” My heart was practically leaping out of my chest, prepared to follow her out the door.
“Who?”
“My wife!”
She huffed and spoke to my brother-in-law. “He says he’s met his wife.”
Pietro’s laugh sounded in the background. “Again?”
“Exactly,” she said. “What’s this one’s name?”
“I have no idea!” I laughed, a giddy energy consuming me.