fact too much. Some, yeah, but not like, an obsessive amount. I don’t need men in my life. I have my friends, my job, my brother. I do things that matter. But all those truths don’t distract from the fact that it’s been a long time since I had someone’s hands on my hips or their kisses trailing down my neck. “This is the part where you ask why I’m calling.”
“But we both know why you’re calling. You want me to take you for a drink.”
I’m starting to regret keeping his number at all. “Christ Almighty, you are good at being an asshole.” I think he is smiling, though, just like I am. I hear it in his voice.
“Some natural talent and lots of practice. Where are you? I’ll send a car.”
“I have a car. Where do you want to meet?”
“Eager, are we?”
“Never mind, I don’t want to go anymore.”
He chuckles. “You called me, Dani.”
“Whatever you say, playboy.”
“What gives you the impression that I’m a playboy?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I’m gripping the phone hard, I realize suddenly. “Maybe the fact that you tried to have your way with me in a hospital when we’d only known each other for a couple of minutes? Seems like sufficient grounds for the charges levied.”
“Fair enough,” he acknowledges. “Give me your address. I’ll send a limo. A princess like you deserves nothing less.”
“Wow, just—yeah, that’s real flattering.”
I can hear him grinning, that jerk. “I never said I wanted to flatter you.”
“I’m not giving you my address. Tell me where we’re meeting. Not to be paranoid or anything, but I don’t know you. So, no address.”
He sighs. “The stubbornness of women. Fine.” He gives me the address. “Ten o’clock, don’t be late.”
I hang up before he gets the chance to do it first, laughing. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the car. I look deliriously happy. I won’t let myself feel anything, of course. Because the last thing I need right now is a boyfriend or anything even resembling that. I’m too busy with the things my life is full of.
But a few drinks to get this steam well and truly blown off?
Who could it hurt?
Here’s the thing, though: if I get all dressed up for him, it’s like admitting that he can just swagger over to me in the corridor and start putting his cheeseball moves on me and be rewarded for that. So I decide on some tight-fitting jeans and a normal cotton white top instead, not even wearing heels, which might be considered a felony in some circles of women in this city.
I park down the street from the club, a place called Sole Nero. Then I walk up and find my place in the back of the line—which is absurdly long, even though it’s not even ten p.m. yet—when a man in a suit approaches.
“Are you Dani?” he asks.
I nod hesitantly, confused. “Uh, yeah.”
“This way, please.”
I ignore the glares of everyone else in line as I walk to the front of the line. The man in the suit leads me through the club, across the dance floor, through a side door, and then up a flight of stairs. Music is pumping all around us, but when I walk into the room it becomes dim, thudding quietly through the floor. The man in the suit disappears, and then Angelo walks out from behind a silk wall partition at the far end.
“Impressed?” he teases.
“No,” I lie.
He stalks close to me. He’s not wearing his jacket. The fabric of his blue shirt is slightly see-through in the flashing disco lights. I can make out the ridged muscles of his abs. Placing a hand on my hip, he leads me to the bar. His cologne is strong, musky. His hand is firm.
I never react like this to men. But Angelo is different, and suddenly, I have to resist the urge to squeeze that rock-carved arm.
“Champagne?”
“I’ll take a beer,” I counter, trying to sound cool and calm, but worried it comes out dorky. Not gonna lie, I’m a little out of my element here.
He arches an eyebrow. “Two beers, then.” He grabs the bottles and nods to a booth in the corner. I try to focus on the coldness of the glass in my hand, on the condensation, basically anything to distract from his eyes moving up and down me.
“So are you friends with the person who owns this club or something?” I ask.