“Of course.”
“And…” I hesitated. “Maybe a milkshake? Like a chocolate one?”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
“Anything you want,” he said again.
Then he raised his hand, and a man in a crisp black apron appeared beside our table. Mid-thirties, clean-shaven, with a name tag that read Manager.
“Yes, Mr. Falcone?”
“Can we please get a burger, medium-rare,” Lorenzo said without looking at the manager. “Fries. And a chocolate shake.”
“Of course, sir. Anything else?”
“That’s all for now.” He finally turned his gaze to the man. “Make it quick, Chris. She’s hungry.”
Chris nodded without question. “Got it, boss.”
And he walked away.
Boss.
The word hung in the air between us.
I stared at Lorenzo. “Wait…you own this place?”
He didn’t deny it. Just watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes. “I do.”
I shook my head, trying to process it. “You do mean ‘own it’ as in managed it, right?”
“No, I own it,” he confirmed. “Bought it six years ago and renovated it. It’s mine.”
The way he said the word mine caused my nerves to light up, intimidation pulsed inside me along with a strange, fluttery feeling in my chest that I couldn’t name.
“So you’re… rich.” The word came out flat.
“Comfortable.”
“Must be nice.” I laughed, but it came out hollow. “I have negative $7 in my bank account.”
He fought to school his features and replied. “Then I’m glad you’re eating here tonight.”
His sincerity burned my cheeks. I stared down, tearing at the napkin. “Yeah. Me too. I guess.”
Silence stretched between us. Not awkward, exactly, but charged. Like the air before a storm. I looked up and caught him staring again. But this time it was not at me; he was staring into me. Like he was peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had. His gaze traced my face: my eyes, my lips, the curve of my jaw.
I swallowed. “Why are you doing this?”
He tilted his head. “Doing what?”
“This.” I gestured vaguely at the table, the bar, the whole situation. “Buying me dinner. Letting me sit here. You don’t know me. I’m nobody. I’m literally a homeless girl who was just crying on your street corner.”
For a second, the ache in my chest caught up with me. Maybe I deserved all this mess. After years of clinging to a lost cause of a relationship, I’d finally been spat out, suitcase in hand, onto icy pavement. It was easier to pretend I was fine, like this was some rom-com stumble, but everything felt raw and exposed.
“You’re notnobody,” he replied, words were quiet, yet firm.
“You—” I faltered. “You don’t even know me.”
