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My heart hammered in my chest, realizing I hadn’t looked in a mirror in a long time, that maybe my makeup had started to fail me. I had the stuff in my purse in case of this kind of situation, but I likely would have checked before he showed up if I knew he’d be coming.
“Who did what?” I asked, forcing a small smile, trying to play it off.
“Don’t,” he said, voice somehow both harsh and soft at the same time. “Who put their hands on you?”
I yanked my hand out of his hold so I could take the step back I so desperately needed right then, finding myself both troubled by and oddly turned on by his sort of seething anger right then.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, shaking my head.
He moved so fast that I almost missed it.
He grabbed the stack of napkins, dipped it in his glass of water, then rubbed it across my wrist.
Sure enough, the makeup started to smudge away, showing a bit of the purple bruise beneath.
“Let’s try this again,” he said, his dark gaze holding mine. “Who. The. Fuck. Put. Their. Hands. On. You?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, pulling my hand back and tucking it behind my back, feeling oddly insecure about the bruise even if it clearly hadn’t been my fault.
“Unless it ends with you dumped the fucker’s corpse into the river, I’m afraid I’m going to need to hear it, babe.”
“Why?” I asked, shaking my head.
“Why?” he parroted, brows drawing down.
“Yeah, why? Why do you need to hear it? It has nothing to do with you.”
Was that a little bit of hurt slipping into my words? Yeah, yeah it was. Even if it was silly to be hurt because he missed one night of treating my wound that was really pretty much all healed anyway.
Clearly, my fantasies about Salvatore Costa were screwing with my actual emotions. Which was just not okay. I had to get a grip.
“It has to do with you,” he said, sliding off the seat and standing, towering over me.
“Meet me in the bathroom,” he demanded, already moving off in that direction.
Some stubborn part of me wanted to refuse, to leave him there waiting. The other part of me, though, had a feeling that Salvatore was not the kind of man who would be refused. And he was just crazy enough to bring it up in front of my coworkers or customers if I didn’t give in and give him the private audience.
Steeling myself, I checked on my tables, then made my way toward the bathroom, finding him watching the door expectantly.
As soon as the door swung closed, his hand shot out to lock it.
“What the fuck happened?” he asked, voice a little softer, and I could just imagine him pacing the floor in the bathroom, trying to make himself calm down.
And damn if that image didn’t make my heart do a little flutter.
“I have tables that need me,” I told him.
“Fuck the tables. They can all choke on their food for all I care. What happened to you? Who did this?” he asked, reaching for my wrist with a surprisingly gentle hand.
There was no way he was going to let me out of the bathroom without an answer.
“My sister’s ex broke into my apartment and confronted me.”
“Your sister’s ex?” Salvatore repeated, brows pinching. “What’s he got against you?”
“Maybe that one time I broke his nose,” I said, getting a small smirk out of him.
“Seems like the kind of fuck who would have it coming.”
