Page 11

There's something seriously wrong with a woman who spends forty-five minutes deciding what to wear for dinner with a man she's already kissed senseless. Especially when that woman owns approximately six decent outfits, and three of them have cat hair permanently embedded in the fabric. I've changed clothes twice in the library bathroom, nearly stabbed myself in the eye with mascara, and spent ten minutes trying to convince my auburn hair to do something other than hang around my face like a depressed curtain.

All because Lorenzo Moretti is sending a car to pick me up. An actual car. With a driver. Apparently, that's how rich people date.

"You're going to wear a hole in the carpet," Denise announces from the circulation desk as I pass her for the third time.

"I'm not pacing. I'm checking the shelves."

"In the same aisle?"

"Maybe the books moved."

She peers over her glasses, looking entirely too amused. "Go have fun, Bridget. You look beautiful, and if that man has any sense, he'll spend the evening telling you so."

I glance down at my fitted navy-blue dress. It's not designer, but it makes my boobs look good, and the heels haven't crippled me yet. That's about as successful as my fashion choices get. My phone buzzes with a message from Enzo.

Your car is waiting, sweetheart.

Outside, a sleek black sedan sits at the curb, looking completely out of place in front of a public library. Rocco, Enzo's enormous driver from the wedding, opens the rear door when he sees me.

"Good evening, Miss Collins."

"Bridget, please. Miss Collins makes me sound like I'm about to assign homework."

His mouth twitches. "Bridget, then."

I slide inside, trying not to flash him while wrestling with my dress. The leather seats probably cost more than my Toyota, which makes a noise like somebody strangling a goose whenever I turn left. Enzo offered to collect me at my apartment, but I insisted the library was more convenient. It's a lie, of course. My apartment is perfectly comfortable, but I have secondhand furniture, overflowing bookshelves, and five cats who consider scratching posts optional.

I'm not ready for this man to discover how the other half lives.

When Rocco pulls up outside the restaurant, I understand exactly how different our lives are. The building is all glass, stone, and discreet lighting, with enough luxury cars parked outside to fund a small country. A hostess greets me by name and leads me between tables occupied by women dripping in diamonds. Enzo rises the moment he sees me. Good Lord. He's wearing a charcoal suit with an open-collared white shirt, his dark hair perfectly styled, and that ridiculous smile that had me practically drooling at the wedding.

"Bridget." He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. "You look beautiful, tesoro."

"Thank you, although I'm beginning to think I should've worn something fancier. Possibly stolen a tiara."

"Why?"

I glance toward a woman whose handbag probably requires its own insurance policy. "Because I'm fairly certain her purse costs more than my car."

Enzo smiles as he pulls out my chair. "Then she's obviously made some questionable financial decisions."

I laugh, settling into my seat. "Careful. I might start liking you."

"That would certainly make my evening easier."

The bastard is going to kill me with those manners. Unfortunately, opening the menu nearly finishes the job. I stare at the prices, wondering whether the chicken comes with a deed to the restaurant.

"Order whatever you like," Enzo says, apparently reading my mind.

"Easy for you to say. You don't need to take out a personal loan to afford the appetizers."

"Bridget." He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. "Let me spoil you."

There's something dangerously appealing about his confidence, especially when he looks at me like he means every word. Still, when our food arrives, I discover the portions are apparently designed for people who consider eating an unfortunate necessity.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"No. I'm just wondering whether I'm supposed to eat the flower."