Page 170 of Claimed At First Sight

One arm rests along the table, the other on the arm of his chair, his posture relaxed. A smile tugs at his mouth, confirming my suspicion without admitting a thing.

“If your choices for me turn out to be terrible, I reserve the right to complain all evening.”

“I’ll take that risk,” he laughs.

It’s rich, warm, and entirely too attractive. The sound sends a flutter through my chest.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. The food here is exceptional.”

His eyes gleam, and God help me, it makes him look more youthful than the ancient thirty-one years he’s got under his belt.

“And just for the record, I’ll be ordering for you a lot. It’s one of the ways I enjoy looking after a woman.” His gaze holds mine. “I take great pleasure in making sure she’s satisfied.”

The innuendo lands as intended.

Heat rushes straight to my cheeks, and unfortunately, lower too. I press my legs together, thankful he can’t see below the table.

“That’s an outrageous thing to say to someone on a first date.”

He smirks. “It would be if we had just met. But we’ve been sparring since the day we met eight weeks ago.”

Has it only been eight weeks? It feels much longer than that, like Maximo has been in my life for years.

“Good evening, Mr. Marco,” another member of staff says as he approaches our table carrying the bottle of wine Maximo ordered.

“Oh, am I allowed to drink wine tonight, or will you insist on water or orange juice again?”

Maximo grins at me. “You may enjoy a glass tonight. It goes better with your food.”

I may?

I roll my eyes. Five days ago I’d been destined to spend the evening with nothing stronger than orange juice. Convenient how his rules seem to change whenever it suits him.

Unperturbed by our conversation about the legal drinking age, the sommelier presents the label to Maximo, who studies it for a brief moment before inclining his head.

With practiced precision, the sommelier uncorks the bottle and pours a small measure into Maximo’s glass.

I watch as Maximo swirls the pale golden wine, inhales its aroma, then takes a measured sip. Satisfied, he gives the sommelier a nod.

The man fills my glass first, then Maximo’s, before stepping back.

“Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you,” Maximo replies.

I lift my glass and take a sip. The wine is crisp and silky at once, tasting of ripe peach and citrus with just enough richness to linger on my tongue.

Maximo watches me, taking in every reaction that crosses my face. Before that satisfied smile of his can grow any wider, I tear my gaze away and let it wander over the restaurant.

Conversation around us rises and falls. Glasses clink. Someone laughs.

My gaze catches on a table diagonally from us where three men are seated. One is older, like the patriarch of a family. The other two are younger, his sons, perhaps, for they share the same fair coloring and strong noses.

They’re dressed well enough to blend into the restaurant’s wealthy clientele, but they stand out anyway.

It’s hard to put into words, but there’s a different air about them.

The older man exudes the effortless authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Broad-shouldered despite his age, with iron-gray hair and a weathered face, he reminds me of the cliffs along the Sicilian coastline. Solid, unmoving, and dangerous.