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10
Bella
Istop applying my mascara, resting my hands on the edge of the bathroom sink. Why is Carm occupying every cell in my brain today? Last night was one thing, but it’s a new day. I even put on a shirt I always get compliments about, on the off chance I run into him at the office today.
I’m not naïve. The sexual tension between us last night wasn’t my imagination. Since neither of us had enough to drink to give us the illusion that we could sleep together and blame it on the alcohol, I’d left him last night, feeling unfulfilled. If he’d been anyone else, when he walked me into the lobby, I might’ve asked him upstairs.
I apply a little more powder under my eyes to try to hide the dark circles. Staying up half the night trying to convince myself I’m not attracted to him was a useless endeavor. His lips were the first thing that crossed my mind as my hand slid down past my mound. His hands and eyes came next. Then the way his biceps tug at his shirt sleeves, followed with me imagining how the scruff on his face would feel scraping against my inner thighs as he teased me. He was who I imagined as I bucked into my hand.
My phone rings, distracting me from the memory. I swipe the screen and put it on speaker. “Hey, Mom.”
“Sweetie, I’m so glad I caught you. Instead of dinner, let’s do brunch, okay? Greg has somewhere he wants to take me tonight.”
I think through my schedule for this morning, but Max can handle anything that comes up. And I can work late anyway. My excuse last night of an early morning meeting was a fib. “Okay.”
“I want you to meet him. He has a quick business meeting first, then he’s going to join us at our table.”
“Oh, it’s not necessary if he has business to attend to.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve already told him all about you and how proud I am of the business you’re starting. He’s dying to meet you.”
I highly doubt a man like Greg Throttle, whose reputation in this town is unmatched, is impressed by my measly FSBO company. “Where and what time?”
“Ten thirty at The Cobbler. That way we get some time alone together while he’s doing business.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you there.”
That means I won’t be fresh-faced and wrinkle-free before seeing Carm, which kind of means the whole hour of getting ready was for nothing.
I know. I know. Stop thinking of him.
If only.
“Can’t wait, and oh, I brought you a tin of cookies for Max.”
“She’ll love hearing that. See you in a bit, Mom.”
We say our goodbyes, and I stare at myself in the mirror, grab my mascara, and start applying again. After I’m ready, I send Max a message to say I’ll be in this afternoon and to call me if anything important comes up. Otherwise, I’m working from home until brunch.
* * *
At 10:25,I step out of the cab in front of The Cobbler. It’s a large restaurant below a condominium building I’m fairly sure is owned by Greg Throttle. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised he chose this place, if he really is the Greg Throttle.
I head inside, but before I approach the hostess, someone else opens the door behind me and a rush of air tousles my perfect curls that took twenty minutes to get just right. What a waste. By the time I reach the office and the possibility of running into Carm, my red hair will be thrown up into a ponytail.
My mom stands from one of the tables, and I spot Greg Throttle next to her. No one owns a room quite like him. His salt-and-pepper hair and perfectly trimmed beard work with the slacks and polo shirt he’s wearing. Both of their skin has the bronze coloring of a Floridan. At least he’s not someone pretending to be Greg Throttle. My mom has the real deal at her side.
“I see my party, thank you,” I say to the hostess.
Her eyes aren’t even on me, but on whoever is behind me. I reflexively glance over my shoulder to see what’s grabbed her undivided attention, and I’m greeted with an egocentric smirk so big, all the blood flowing through my body zeroes in between my thighs.
Damn, I dressed to impress, but Carmelo Mancini upped his game this morning too.
I feel confident he didn’t do so for my benefit though.
“Good morning.” His voice sounds rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “What are you here for?”
“Um… good morning.” I bow. Why am I bowing as though he’s some prince or something? I straighten my back. “My mom… she’s in…” Jesus, his tailored suit is distracting. Like it covers but shows off his body all at once.
