He said nothing after that, but something in his expression shifted, as if he had taken the information and placed it somewhere permanent.
Then, as if he had found whatever he was looking for, he gave a small nod to himself and leaned back in his chair.
“Let’s order,” he said. “What do you think?”
I nodded and reached for the menu in front of me, only to go still when I realized there were no prices listed beside the dishes.
Red flag.
This place had to be obscenely expensive.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
He had reached a hand across the table, and I looked at it for a second too long. His skin was tanned, the fingers strong, the back of his hand marked with faint scars and a few callouses on his palm that didn’t belong on someone who looked this polished. They caught my attention more than they should have. So did the brief, treacherous thought of what those hands might feel like on my skin. It was only a flicker, barely there, but still enough to send heat rising into my cheeks.
The unforgiving downside of being this fair.
“No,” I said a little too quickly. “It’s just…I’m not familiar with Italian food. Unless Olive Garden counts.”
He let out a soft, offended hiss that made me laugh before I could stop myself, and just like that some of the tension loosened.
I closed the menu and looked back at him. “Why don’t you choose for me? You told me your name is Benetti. I assume that makes you an expert.”
A small, dangerously pleased smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, and I found myself wondering whether he had any idea how unfairly attractive it made him look.
Of course he did. Men like Pietro always knew exactly what they were doing.
“One hundred percent Italian,” he said, closing his own menu and gesturing the waiter forward. “And if I have to compete with Olive Garden, I’m afraid I’ll need to impress you properly.”
That same traitorous thought about his hands came back at once, and his smile widened ever so slightly as the heat in my face deepened.
God. He knew.
“Anything you’re opposed to?” he asked as the waiter stopped beside us, notepad in hand. The poor man looked faintly nervous, his pen trembling just enough for me to notice.
I gave him a bright smile, hoping to put him at ease. He was probably worried about getting the order right, or about the tip. I understood that kind of tension. Half my college meals had depended on tips from waitressing shifts and smiling through rude customers.
“No,” I said. “I’m good with anything.”
Pietro gave a short nod, then placed the order in flawless Italian.
If I had found him attractive before, that did something much worse.
By the time the waiter retreated, I was no longer entirely sure I remembered how to sit like a normal person.
Pietro turned back to me. “I took the liberty of ordering red wine with the meal. I hope that’s all right.”
I nodded. “Of course. I’m not a big drinker, though.”
He leaned back slightly in his chair. “Neither am I. I prefer to keep my head sharp.”
That didn’t make him less dangerous.
“Sharp for what?”
“Life. Decisions.” He gave a small shrug, as if that explained everything.
“You’re not a history student.”
