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He didn’t look back at me.
Taking a steadying breath, trying not to allow myself to feel the disappointment that started to spread through my chest and belly, I made my way over toward his table.
There on the surface was a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
To pay for the food he didn’t eat.
And a tip.
I knew that.
Like, of course.
But I couldn’t help the strange, shameful little voice that said it had little to do with the cheap food and more to do with what had happened in the bathroom.
I mean, it was ridiculous.
A hot mafia guy didn’t need to pay for sex.
And it wasn’t even sex.
He’d gone downon me.
No guy would pay to go down on a woman and get nothing in return.
I tucked the money into my book and let my gaze move out onto the street, watching his retreating form as he walked down the street.
He didn’t look back.
And I tried like hell to tell myself that I didn’t care.
But every freaking ounce of me was begging for him to look back at me.
The thing was… he didn’t.
And I would just have to learn to live with that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Whitney
It had been days.
Days and days, even.
But, still, when I heard a knock at my door, my stupid heart leaped into my throat like there was even a small chance that Salvatore was going to show up and finish what we’d started in the bathroom at my work.
“One second,” I called, pulling the tray out of the oven and setting it on the stovetop before rushing to the door.
It wasn’t him.
Of course it wasn’t.
It was my sister.
And I was furious with myself for being disappointed with that fact as I reached up to slide the locks.
“Hey you! This was unexpected,” I said, forcing my voice to be cheery even though it was just that—forced.
