Page 13 of One Filthy Kiss

I study his face. He’s so beautiful it almost hurts my eyes. Almost.

There’s still the issue of the video to be resolved. But I guess if he’s offering to clear up his own mess, having breakfast with him is the least I can do.

“Okay,” I say. “But Amber comes with us. And only if you promise that there’ll be no photographs, or videos, or people following us around and asking for your autograph.”

He chuckles. “Deal.”

He stands back and holds my hand while I climb out of the car. No one has ever done that for me before, and it would make me feel special if I wasn’t so anxious and confused.

I lean in and unfasten Amber’s seatbelt.

“Where are we going, Meggie?” she asks.

“We’re going to get food. Are you hungry?”

She nods and peers up at Mr. Sabatelli from beneath long thick eyelashes. “Can I get pancakes?”

He crouches in front of Amber, bringing himself down to her level, and I wonder if he has children of his own. My eyes instinctively seek out his wedding finger, and myheart springs back to life when I don’t find a ring or a circle of untanned skin.

“You can get pancakes with as many toppings as you can eat.”

The accent is like melted chocolate on my tongue, and it isn’t until I’m sitting in the back seat of his bus-sized car that I realize I didn’t even say goodbye to Nikki.

Giovanni—he says that we can call him Gio—points out landmarks to Amber as we drive through the city. Universal Studios. The Walt Disney Concert Hall. The famous Hollywood sign located up in the hills. He makes everything sound exciting, and Amber sits forward in her seat, soaking up the sights that I haven’t yet gotten around to showing her.

“Look, Meggie.” She points out of the window at a woman performing somersaults on roller skates. “Can I get roller skates when we go home?”

“Where is home, Meggie?” My heart skips frantically when he says my name.

“The UK.” Surely, he can tell by the accent.

“Whereabouts in the UK?”

Why does he want to know? It isn’t like we’re going to see each other again after this date, if it can even be called a date. Men like Giovanni Sabatelli probably date models and actors and wealthy heiresses. They don’t date cake makers who live in a dingy apartment in a shitty part of East London on the other side of the Atlantic.

“East London.” Amber answers for me.

“What brings you to Los Angeles?”

“Nikki, my friend, is an actor.” Here’s the part where I make this situation work for my best friend. “A great actor. You should see her on stage.” Deep breath.Calm the hell down, Meg, and stop gazing into his beautiful eyes. “Anyway, she landed this role, and her parents paid for me to come out here with Amber for a vacation.”

His expression gives nothing away, but I get the feeling that he’s taking it all in, storing it up for later.

“I’m glad you did.”

He is?

A shiver travels through me, his words lingering in my ears and keeping me warm despite the air conditioning inside the car.

Until I realize that we’re pulling into an airport.

LAX.

I press my forehead against the tinted window, waiting for Gio to tell me that there’s been some mistake. Ot that he has to attend a meeting in the terminal before we go and get food. But instead, we enter a private parking lot, and the driver pulls into a reserved bay.

“What’s going on?” I glare at Gio who is still sitting comfortably. “Why are we stopping here?”

“We’re getting food, Meggie. Like we agreed.”