could be wrong. Then Bolt leans forward. “Is there somewhere around here we could get a takeout?” he asks our driver, sounding completely together.
We happen to be driving under a streetlight, so I see the driver nod. He names a well-known takeout place. A burger franchise joint. “Or I could take you to a local restaurant. It’s small and would be quiet at this time of night. I know they would do a takeout for you…no problem. Much better food – I’m hoping you like authentic Italian – and you would be supporting our local community.”
I prefer that idea. “Yes! I love Italian food. Did somebody say garlic bread? I mean, if you don’t mind, Bolt?”
I hear him draw in a breath, and even that sounds sexy. “I must admit, Miss Shaw, I could eat something. And a local restaurant sounds better than a burger joint. You sure you wouldn’t prefer those nuts?” Again, he sounds flirtatious.
“The local restaurant sounds perfect,” I say, even though I have several nut responses all lined up. I need to remind myself that although Bolt has shared more than I thought he ever would, he also made it quite clear that we’re not actually friends. It’s that NDA, and the fact that he literally can’t share with many people. There will be no more joking nut references. There definitely won’t be any flirtatious nut references, lest I make a fool of myself.
“Let’s go, then.” Bolt’s voice seems deeper, sitting here in the dark.
“Okay.” The driver activates his indicator and turns. A few minutes later, we’re pulling up outside a laundromat. Why are we outside a laundromat?
“Are we at the right place?” Bolt asks.
“Yes, we are.” The driver sounds excited.
I put my hand on the handle to open the door, but Bolt shakes his head. “Sit tight, Miss Shaw.”
As before, the driver opens for him, and he walks around the vehicle, moving impossibly quickly, and opens for me. He puts out his hand and I take it. His much bigger, much warmer one envelops mine. I can smell a hint of expensive cologne and, man…I feel this zing of awareness move through me. I ignore it flat. As I pull myself to my full height, I’m reminded of how big he is…how small I am…okay, a bit of both.
He lets me go.
“You should go through there. You won’t miss it.” The driver points down a dimly lit alleyway.
Now that I’m outside the car, I think I can hear music. I can definitely smell garlic. I’m still wary. We’re in a strange part of town. There are no other restaurants or bars around.
Bolt must sense my hesitation because he says, “You’re safe with me, Miss Shaw,” his voice deep. I’m instantly at ease because I don’t doubt that for a second. Even if I were armed, I wouldn’t mess with Bolt.
“I could walk you down?” the driver offers.
“We’re all good,” Bolt says, and we start to walk. I’m half expecting him to put his hand to my back again, but he doesn’t.
We walk down the alleyway. It’s clean and neat, as far as alleyways go. I can see light spilling out of a doorway up ahead. The music is coming from there. It’s very Italian-sounding, putting me even more in the mood for pasta and garlic bread.
“Smells good,” Bolt remarks.
“Sure does.”
“At least there’s no paparazzi,” he adds, his voice gruff.
“Did they know you were going to be at The Black Swan?”
“Someone might have tipped them off. More than likely, they were hanging out in the hopes of someone gossip-worthy turning up.”
“I think you’ll be okay here. You should probably avoid restaurants like The Black Swan.”
He doesn’t say anything. I hope I didn’t put my foot into it. I shouldn’t be telling him what he should and shouldn’t do.
“If I let the paparazzi dictate what I can and can’t do, I’d have to stay home twenty-four seven,” he says as we arrive. Bolt stands back at the door, letting me go in first. A young man approaches us. “Welcome to I’anatra Grassa. Can I get you a table?”
The restaurant is very small. It’s long and narrow, with only a handful of tables. Only one table is occupied. A couple of people are talking and laughing. There are full glasses of wine on the table.
“Would we be able to order to take home?” Bolt asks, looking with skepticism at the occupied table. They’re too busy enjoying themselves to care about us.
“But of course. My name is Giovanni. Please