Work In Progress (Red Lipstick Coalition #3) - Staci Hart Page 0,61

picture.

Tommy leaned in, buried his face in my hair behind my ear, and said, “You’re gorgeous.”

My gaze dropped to my lap, my cheeks aflame, my lips smiling. He laid a small kiss behind my ear, and I mourned that I couldn’t feel his lips against my skin for my hair.

The table was set for four, but rather than sit across from me, he took the seat to my side, effectively blocking the camera lady from view.

He shot me a knowing smile as he unfurled his napkin and set it in his lap. “So, what’s your poison?” he asked, picking up the menu.

I flipped mine open and skimmed it. “I’m not picky at all. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had an Italian dish I didn’t like.”

“Even eggplant?”

I shrugged. “I love eggplant.”

“But it’s so…slimy.” His nose wrinkled up.

“So are mushrooms, but I like those, too.”

An endearing shudder wracked through him.

“Okay, so nothing slimy,” I said, smiling.

“How about veal?”

It was my turn to wrinkle my face. “I’m morally averse to the idea of eating a baby cow.”

He looked pleased, like I’d passed a test. “One that’s never even stood or walked a step. It’s cruel, really.”

I imagined I looked pleased, too. For a split second, I imagined him bursting into some evil farm conglomerate to save all the wobbly baby cows. Something in the region of my uterus quivered at the thought.

But he wasn’t watching me salivate over him. Or maybe he was and figured I was thinking about lasagna.

“The chicken scarpariello is my favorite,” he said. “It’s family style, so unless we want enough left over to eat for three days, we should probably share. If that’s okay with you,” he added.

“That sounds perfect. Should we get extra for Theo and your mom?”

This time when he smiled, it wasn’t big or wide or amused. It was small, genuine, touched. And it lit him up from the inside. “Good idea. We can take them a slab of lasagna and some tiramisu. Ma might faint from joy. Wine okay?”

“Whatever you want.”

That soft smile curled slyly. “Careful what you promise, Amelia.”

The waiter appeared, mercifully saving me from having to respond. Tommy ordered for us, and we passed our menus over.

When we were alone again, he shifted—not only turning to face me, but leaning toward me. He took my hand from where it rested on the table, turning it over in his. With his other hand, he traced the lines of my palm.

A tingling zip ran up my arm.

“We have a lot of things to figure out,” he said.

“L-like what?”

“Well, for starters, Theo is up my ass wondering what charities you want to contribute to. He’s got to get started setting up appearances and events, and it’s making him jumpy to have so many loose ends.”

I watched him as his giant index finger trailed my love line, which was deep and long and curled all the way off the end of my palm before fading.

I didn’t realize I hadn’t responded until he asked, “So, what do you think? What should we donate to?”

“Well, I haven’t thought about it too much. Something with reading. Reading and children. Libraries?”

“I can have Theo find some options, if you don’t have one. What else? Have any animals you’d like to save?”

My face melted. “God, Katherine sent me this video of sea lions that were shot but not killed, climbing up on the ice to die, and I’ve had nightmares about it ever since. This is why I never leave my house. Humans are cruel creatures.”

“I have to agree.”

Tommy and I turned to the feminine voice to find an equally feminine and poised Vivienne Thorne.

I’d always thought she was the picture of beauty and power, her body lithe and feline, her eyes sharp and shrewd. She was a journalist for New York Today, her articles were always airtight, brilliantly composed, and exposed the subject matter down to its marrow. Like when she’d uncovered that golfer’s trillion affairs or the takedown of one of America’s sweethearts by airing all the sordid details of her drug addiction.

I had the sinking feeling that I was about to be the object of her scrutiny.

The air around Tommy tightened. “Funny seeing you here, Viv.” It was almost an accusation.

She shrugged elegantly. “Please, Tommy. It was a happy accident.” Vivienne turned her icy gaze on me and extended a hand, her lips slithering into a smile. “We haven’t met. I’m Vivienne Thorne.”

I smiled, flustered and starstruck and certain somehow that everything I said would be