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“That’s actually the exact opposite of obvious,” I say dismissively.
“Only if you’re blind. I mean, yeah, he’s nice to look at, but he looks so angry, don’t you think?”
I glance at him, and just then, like he knows what she said, his jaw clenches.
“Well, if people were talking about me like this, I might be angry, too,” I say and Cass pinches me.
“Well, if you think you know better, you can ignore me. But don’t say you weren’t warned,” she says and turns back to the victim on her other side.
As if I need any warning. I can smell a violent man the minute he enters the room. I grew up with them under the same roof. I watched them do more damage than any of the natural disasters that were a way of life for us in the Mississippi Delta.
I lean toward Cass.
“He’s staying on our floor,” I whisper. I can’t take my eyes off him. My whole body is tingling just from looking at him.
“Thank you, God,” I say, pressing my hands together in gratitude.
Cass laughs. “I mean, he does clean up nicely, but he looks like he’d be more comfortable in a boxing ring than
on a dance floor,” she says.
“Yes, exactly,” I practically purr before I take another sip of my gin and tonic. My thighs clench when I think about how rough things could get.
“His nose doesn’t look like it’s been broken, though,” she muses.
“No one’s perfect,” I joke and take a final swig of my drink.
“Enjoy. My fantasy Italian fling is more in the style of Jude Law in the Talented Mr. Ripley. He looks like he could eat Jude Law in a single bite.”
“Or me,” I drawl with a wink and stand up. I run my hands down my dress.
Cass grabs my arm and yanks me back down in my seat. “Where in the world are you going? You are not going to approach him,” she says as if scandalized.
I glance over at her and grin, because I am so going to approach him.
“You never approach anyone. You’re still getting over Nigel. Who are you?” she asks, green eyes wide with surprise.
“I’m Confidence Ryan, and I’m about to go climb my very own Mt. Olympus,” I say with a suggestive waggle of my eyebrows.
“Are you drunk?” she asks when I start to stand up again.
“Yes, but so what?” I say.
“You’ll regret it in the morning,” she frets.
“Maybe …” I shrug.
“This isn’t you.” She peers up at me.
“Again, so what?” I shrug off her questions. “I’m in Italy. I’m single. And I think that if I’m ready to walk over and put my ass on a table for another man to make a meal of me, then I might be over Nigel,” I say.
“True facts,” she says with an enthusiastic nod.
“And if I have regrets … then, at least it will be for something worth regretting. I want to know what that kind of regret feels like,” I say in a moment of rare vulnerability.
“Okay,” she says, relenting in her attempts to stop me. Even if she doesn’t quite sound convinced.
“Just be safe. Get your own drinks and drop your glass so it shatters if you need a rescue,” she says and takes a sip of her drink.
