Page 37 of Don’t Say Mafia

“Hi,” he said.

Like it always did when I heard his voice, my breath stuttered, and I had to focus hard on setting the glass down before I broke it. “You can’t just do that,” I said, aiming for annoyance and landing somewhere closer to rattled. “Sneak up on people.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I’ll take that under consideration. Though, I’m fairly certain walking up in full view doesn’t qualify as sneaking.”

I didn’t really have a retort for that. I’d slept maybe an hour in the last two days, and my brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. “Do you need something?” I asked finally.

His eyes dipped briefly to the glasses on the tray in front of me, then lifted back to my face, his gorgeous brown gaze holding mine with unsettling focus. “You look exhausted,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”

The sincerity of it caught me off guard, and I had to force myself to smile to cover up my surprise. “So . . . in other words, I look like hell.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant,” I teased, taking a small step back because he was still standing too close, and my brain was already malfunctioning.

His expression shifted back to looking concerned. “Why don’t you go home?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You look like you’re running on fumes,” he said evenly. “Call it a night.”

A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Yeah, I don’t think my boss would be thrilled by that suggestion.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “You might be surprised.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “Just that sometimes bosses are more reasonable than people assume.”

“Right.” I folded my arms, trying to ignore how good he looked. “Well, mine isn’t. And even if he were, I can’t afford to just walk out.”

His gaze softened slightly. “Why not?”

I hesitated. I didn’t know why I was even entertaining this conversation. I didn’t owe him explanations. But something about the way he was looking at me—like he actually cared about the answer—it made my guard slip just a fraction.

“It’s Friday,” I admitted quietly. “Tips are always best on Fridays.”

Understanding flickered across his face.

“And I need the tips,” I added, hating the vulnerability in my voice. “So unless you’re planning to cover my rent for the month . . .”

His eyes held mine, unreadable now. “Maybe I am,” he mused.

Now I was the one rolling my eyes. “Right,” I said dryly. “And maybe I’m secretly a trust fund heiress doing this for fun.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, but he looked too amused for it to be because of my bad joke. I took a deep breath and reached for the tray again. “I’m going to get back to work now.”

A faint dissatisfied sound left him, like he didn’t love that answer but wasn’t going to argue with me. “Me too,” he finally said.

He hadn’t offered a single real detail about himself since the night I’d first met him, and before I could stop myself, curiosity slipped past my caution. “Doing what?” I asked.

Something shifted in his expression, and he had that satisfied gleam in his eye that was starting to become familiar . . . like I’d just stepped exactly where he’d been waiting for me to once again. Heat crawled up my neck.

“This and that,” he said lightly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s my favorite kind.”