Weekend?
I’m saved from requesting a towelette for my suddenly drenched face when we arrive at the table the maître d has assigned to us. Unlike the many dining options surrounding us, our table isn’t a booth, meaning Maddox has no choice but to set me onto my feet. It presents the perfect opportunity for me to flee, but since we’re at the very back of the restaurant, far from prying eyes, my feet refuse to answer the prompts of my brain—and perhaps my heart. It seems to rule the roost when it comes to anyone in the Walsh clan.
“Killjoy,” Maddox whispers to the maître d, winking when she grins ear-to-ear about the mirth in his tone.
I plop into my seat before covering my flaming-with-anger face with the menu. “Is she afriendof yours?”
It’s Mood Swing City here today. One minute I’m telling him to back off, and the next minute I’m wondering how true claims are that you can kill someone with a fork.
“Depends,” Maddox replies, taking my anger in stride like it’s no big deal.
He probably handles neurotic, jealous women every day. They throw themselves at him all the time. The fact I expected to be treated differently shows how stupid I am, and I’m not solely referencing accepting his invitation for lunch, either.
“Do you class Dimitri as your friend? Or do cousins not get the friend title?”
Shit.
“The maître d is your cousin?” The chirpy, she-needs-to-be-admitted-stalker, Demi is back. “That’s nice.”
When I sink low in my chair so the menu can cover my face, Maddox’s laugh rumbles through the gilded cardboard a mere second before he plucks it out of my hand. “No hiding on me, Demi. I’ve been waiting for this day for years.”
Years?
I begin to wonder if I said my query out loud when Maddox mumbles, “This whole time I thought you were looking at Saint. It was only when your eyes remained glued to my half of the gym during his prowl did I realize I was wrong.”
The pride in his eyes almost knocks me on my ass, but it won’t stop me from saying, “I wasn’t looking at you.”
I’m a woeful liar, and Maddox is more than happy to call me out on it. “Stalking. Eyeballing. Fucking me with your eyes. Whatever you want to call it. You weretotallydoing it.”
“I wasn’tfuckingyou with my eyes.”I totally was.“I was admiring your technique.” With our conversation heading in a direction I never anticipated, my next set of words come out with an edge of caution. “My uncle boards a local fighting chapter.” That made it sound like a legitimate organization. Don’t let me pull the wool over your eyes. “Sometimes he asks me to keep an eye on the competition for him.”
“Oh.” Maddox’s facial expression is more reserved than I’ve ever seen it, and believe me, I have perused it multiple times the past thirteen plus years. “I thought maybe you were a regular at the gym because you were seeking new recruits?”
“No,” I stammer out far too quickly for anyone to believe I’m being honest. “My uncle doesn’t value my opinion that much.” Since that’s straight-up honest, it sounds that way.
I stop twisting my napkin around my fingers when Maddox says, “Perhaps he should. From what I’ve heard, you brought Petretti’s Restaurant back to life the past three years.”
My smile is genuine. I never wanted to be a cook, but Petretti’s was close to my dad’s heart, so I couldn’t help but breathe life back into its lungs when it started to choke.
“Do you eat at Petretti’s often?”
Maddox waits for the server to fill our glasses with water before responding, “Depends. Do you class every second day as regular?”
I nod like he asked if I think he’s sexy. “Pretty much so.”
I won’t lie. I’m as smitten as a romance junkie eating breakfast at Tiffany’s that he dines at Petretti’s. His loyalty won’t line my pockets with money, but it feels good knowing the dishes I handcrafted are being enjoyed by people not in my uncle’s industry.
With my mood not as hostile as it was, we banter through three scrumptious courses, one bottle of wine, and manymanyhours of conversation. We talk about pretty much everything—school, family, and how Maddox stumbled onto the underground fight scene while endeavoring to impress a girl.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him not all college-aged women want to be wooed with violence.
Some want to be saved from it.
“And that pretty much sums up the past three years,” Maddox finalizes while dabbing at a chunk of guacamole stuck in the corner of his plump lips with a napkin.
I noticed it a couple of minutes ago, but since the only way my lust-filled head could conjure up a way to remove it was with my tongue, I kept my knowledge of its existence on the down-low.
I like Maddox, I have for years, but I must remain cautious. When I drag people into my life, it doesn’t matter how strong they are, they get hurt. My daddy was the strongest man I knew, but not even he could survive this world, so I’m not willing to place anyone else into the fire to see if they make it out alive.
