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I glance down at my glass of wine, which the waitress who hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of Luca had brought us. A wine he had chosen without asking for my opinion. A wine which, unfortunately, turned out to be very delicious. Bastard had the gall to smirk as I grudgingly told him so when he asked me if I liked it. Douche-canoe.
"What promises are you talking about?" He swirls the wine around in his glass and proceeds to take a sip. I watch in fascination as the tendons of his beautiful throat flex as he swallows. The man is a walking, talking, pornographic image. Before I met him, I didn’t think people as good-looking as him existed in real life. And now? Now I am sure they don’t, for surely, he, too, is an illusion. All those good looks, that charisma, that larger-than-life persona, those gorgeous shoulders, those eyes of his which track me wherever I go... Even as, in their depths, I sense a feeling of loss, something discontented, a restlessness which reaches out to me each time I hold his gaze. A melting sensation crowds my chest. My heartbeat seems to grow erratic. I cough, then raise my glass of wine to my lips and drink from it again. The fragrant liquid slides down my throat and soothes the scratchy feeling that had begun to develop.
"You okay?" He places his glass back on the table and touches his fingertips together.
"I’m not, actually," I murmur, because I’m not sure if I can keep up this pretense of having a civil conversation any longer.
"What’s wrong?" His gaze intensifies. Those blue eyes deepen again, until they resemble pools of dark, clear water. You know what I said about sensing that core of loss I sometimes spy in their depths? Forget that. Any hint of vulnerability that glimmered there is blinked out, replaced by that hard, unforgiving, beast of a man as I first met him.
"Tell me, Angel," his voice softens.
And that’s my undoing. Because as long as he gives no quarter, as long as he’s pushing me out of my comfort zone, I’m compelled to push back. I’m compelled to hold my stance, and match him word-for-word, action-for-action. I’m pressed to go toe-to-toe with him. But the moment he backs down, the moment he shows me a hint of tenderness, the minute he reveals any sentimentality... I’m mush.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes and I swipe them away.
"Are you crying because you’ve lost the role you’ve prepared for all this time?"
"How do you know I’ve prepared for it?"
"Because you seem like the kind of woman who’s very passionate about what she does. Someone who’d give herself completely to the task at hand, someone who loves what she does for a living. Don’t forget, I saw you dance in that room."
"Yeah, stupid method acting. I confess, I tend to wear the skin of the character I’m playing for a long time afterwards. I’m not the kind of actress who’s able to shed the persona and move on." I sniffle, then reach for a napkin and dab at my cheeks. "I bet I look a sight."
"You always look like the most beautiful woman in the world to me."
I freeze. Those words, said in that tone of voice, with that steady gaze of his. A shiver swoops down my spine and my stomach flip-flops.
"You’re only saying that to make me feel better."
"One thing you should know about me, Angel. I never lie."
"And yet, you’d try to pass off a fake marriage as real to your family?"
"That’s different." He rolls his shoulders.
"How is it different?" I lean forward. "You say you don’t lie, and yet, you’re trying to convince your family that this relationship between us is real."
"I’m doing this for their happiness." He drums his fingers on the table. "I’m doing it because it’s what Nonna would have wanted."
"So, it’s okay to lie if it’s to make someone else happy? I never met your Nonna, but I doubt she’d want you to be in a fake relationship for her benefit."
"More like, she’d be happy I’m, at least, in a fake relationship. She’s probably up there looking down on us and trying her best to convert this fake relationship into a real one. Which, by the way, is never happening."
"You seem very confident about that."
"I am." He leans back in his seat and flattens his palm on the table. I take in the breadth of his hand, the long, thick fingers which he used with great effect when he held me in place as he ravished my lips, as he’d plunged them into my pussy and my ass and made me come so hard I saw stars. I shift around in my seat.
"I’m never going to fall in love," he declares.
I tip up my chin. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I do not intend to allow myself to develop feelings for anyone."
"What about your brothers and your parents?"
"My father abused my mother so much, she dropped dead one day. Then, my brother killed my father."
I squeeze the stem of the wine glass. My guts churn. That’s not what I expected him to bring up. I didn’t think he’d share more of himself with me. And I don’t want to feel this empathy that fills me up inside. I don’t want to allow myself to feel more than what I already do for this man. Which is already a complex set of emotions, to be honest. I’m already attracted to him, and now he’s trying to humanize himself in my eyes, so I begin to understand him better. Which is only going to make this entire situation even more dangerous.
