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Stepping off the car door and into her I place my hand on her lower back to guide her toward my car. Instantly she pulls away from my touch.
"Stop touching me all the time." I knew she was headstrong but the fact that she’s not even politely allowing me to extend a common courtesy without fight makes me chuckle.
"I can't make any promises. My car is the black BMW i8 over there."
I really can't help but touch her. Her body is like a magnet. I'm drawn to her, and I can't help myself when she's close.
When we get to my car, I open her door before walking around to my side. She doesn't even acknowledge my politeness, and I love it. I have her sprung tight, and that's exactly how I want her.
After all the silence I can handle, I ask. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
She shoots me a dirty look that has fuck off stamped all over it, but she surprises me and responds, "He's not my boyfriend if that's what you are thinking." Not wanting to interrupt her moment of sharing, I stay silent. Though I am glad to know that he isn’t her boyfriend.
"He's been one of my closest friends for over nine years, and you show up for all of five seconds and ruin everything."
Rubbing my hand along my chin, I lick my lower lip, all but dying to respond but holding back. Finally, she fixes her focus on me and says, "What, suddenly, you have nothing to say?"
"Sweetheart, I think you ripped his heart out long before I showed up." Her eyes widen, and she punches my arm. "You're a dick. I did not. You have no idea what you're talking about."
"First of all, there's no way I could ruin nine years with one sentence, and you're angry because you know I'm right. Secondly, if you want me to keep my hands to myself, you need to follow your own rules." Her cheeks immediately flush, and I can't help but find it adorable.
Pulling into Lombardo's, I park in the back of the lot just in case I don't drive home. If she notices my strange choice of a parking spot, she doesn't say anything. Once I'm out of the car, I go around to open her side. But, before I can get there, she's already climbing out.
"I can open my own door you know."
Her tone is bitter, and she's still upset about our earlier altercation. What makes me mad is that she's on a date with me thinking about another guy.
"I know you can open your own door. That doesn't change the fact that I wanted to do it for you."
She rolls her eyes as I gesture towards the restaurant for her to lead the way. She does without hesitation, for which I am grateful. Walking inside, I'm greeted by Mara, the hostess who happens to be the owner's niece. I come here often enough that I know everyone.
"Good evening, August. Would you like your usual table?"
"Yes, Mara, that would be perfect, thank you."
We follow Mara to the back of the restaurant, where a corner booth awaits. It's my favorite because it allows me to take in the entirety of the space and people-watch. While we walk back, I can't help but notice Gianna's perfectly round ass on display in her white skinny jeans. Her long dark blonde hair hangs halfway down her back in soft curls that I ache to run my fingers through and see if it feels as silky as it looks. She is by far one of the sexiest women I've ever laid eyes on.
We make it to the booth where Gianna slides in, making sure to sit specifically on one side and not towards the middle, so I take the other side.
"Should I have Carlo bring you your usual Bordeaux?"
"Yes, Mara, that would be perfect, thank you."
Mara walks away and I turn my attention to Gianna, who is looking around the restaurant in awe. This might be a small Italian restaurant, but it's not your typical run-of-the-mill spot.
The inside is rustic chic. Wooden beams run the length of the ceiling with Edison bulb chandeliers. The walls are a soft black velvet accented with mirrored circular gas flame pendant lights that give the place a cozy speakeasy vibe. A brick wall takes up the entire back of the restaurant, lined with metal wine racks. Every time I come here, I feel the day's stress instantly fade away. Tonight, is no exception. I decide to break the silence and risk starting a conversation.
"Do you like it?"
I've startled her, and as she brings her gaze to meet mine for a moment, I think she has forgotten that she's mad at me. But then she opens that smart mouth.
"Did you bring me to an Italian restaurant because of my name?" I purse my lips as the question caught me off guard. Then I realize she would think that.
"Actually, I hadn't thought about that until just now. This place happens to be one of my favorite spots. I live right up the street, so it's very convenient." She nods, seemingly appeased with that response, when Carlo appears at the table with our wine.
"Good evening, August. Glad to see you here tonight with such a beautiful Tesoro. It's about time."
Shit, what were the chances of him using the same Italian term of endearment that I used? Now my fun with it has been ruined. I start, “We—” but I’m cut off.
