Instead, I held her gaze and said nothing.
She scoffed. A bitter, broken sound. “Look, I don’t have the time or energy for this. Okay?” Her voice cracks. “I just gotdumped. I’m stuck in this city with nowhere to go. I’m waiting for my friend who hasn’t answered a single text, and I’m—” she stops. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes glistening again.
Then she exploded.
“I’m fucking hungry, alright? I haven’t eaten in hours. My bank account is negative. I’m standing on a street corner in the cold, crying to a stranger in a five-thousand-dollar suit, and I don’t know why you’re even talking to me, so just…leave me alone.”
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and jagged. She was breathing hard now, chest heaving, her fists clenched at her sides. Then a tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, furiously, as if she were angry at herself for letting it fall.
I should have walked away and left the poor girls alone.
Any reasonable man would have.
But I’d never been reasonable. Not when it came to something I wanted. And I wanted her. This beautiful, furious girl who had no idea what she was doing to me.
“Come back to the bar,” I said.
She froze. “What?”
“You’re hungry. I’ll have the chef make whatever you want. Anything.” I pause. “And we can talk.”
“Talk?” she chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “You’re a stranger,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You were walking alone through the city at night. That wasn’t safe. This is.” I gestured back toward the bar, visible a block away—the warm glow of its windows. “I’m offering you a meal. A place to sit. Nothing more.”
She glares at me, then at the bar, then back at me.
“Why should I trust you?” Her teeth sinks into her lower lip, causing my cock to twitch.
“You shouldn’t.” I stepped closer, close enough that I can smell her coconut shampoo and fruity perfume. “But I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to eat.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Her eyes searching mine, looking for a lie, a trick, or a hidden agenda. But she wouldn’t find one. My agenda was right there in the open:
I want to be near you. I want to know your voice, your laugh, your secrets. I want to own the sound of your breath.
Finally, she let out a shaky exhale. “Fine. But I’m not staying long. And you’re walking in front of me.”
“Deal.”
She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, as I reach out allowing my hand to close over hers. “I’ll carry it.”
“I can manage—” She flinched again, but I didn’t let go.
“I know you can.” I said, pulling the handle from her grip before she could argue. “But I’d really prefer to help.”
She glanced at me below her dark lashes before she wraps her arms around herself, hugging her thin hoodie tighter.
I fell into step beside her. Her suitcase rolls easily now, and I felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction at taking the weight off her hands.
“Lorenzo,” she repeated, testing the name. “Is that Italian?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound Italian. You sound like…New York.”
“I was born in Florence and raised between here and Italy.” Born and choked, I think to myself, the family legacy was a noose around my neck. But that was a story for another time.
“Lorenzo Falcone.” She said it slowly, tasting it. “Sounds like a very official name.”
