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The table next to mine is occupied by a man in a sharp black suit and polished leather shoes. I peek at him through my clumped lashes, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. My mouth goes dry when I manage to get a good look at him.
Hot damn, nowhebelongs in first class.
He’s older than me, maybe in his late thirties? Dark brown hair like a steaming cup of coffee. Deep, dark eyes that lure you to their depths, an endless abyss that I’m curious to explore. He’s got strong shoulders and a wide chest, and his arms are so big I can see the curves of his defined muscles beneath the straining fabric of his suit jacket. He looks the part of a businessman, but there’s something… gruffer underneath.
Dangerous.
I don’t know what it is. There’s an intensity to him, like he’s seen some shit and lived to tell the tale. Equal parts mesmerizing and intimidating, raw strength bundled up in an understated yet respectable package. Now I’m staring. My heart stutters when his eyes lock onto mine, an immediate and almost overwhelming heat shooting down to pool between my legs.
He doesn’t look away. Neither do I. I can’t. He’s just too handsome, too mysterious.
And he’s laughing at me.
“What?” I demand, hating how my voice comes out all squeaky.
“You need to work on your trash talk.”
A shiver slithers down my spine, goosebumps crawling down the length of my arms. Hisvoice. Deep and rich, so low I can feel his words vibrate in the pit of my stomach. It’s enough to leave me breathless and my brain blank. I have no clue what I’m supposed to say.
Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything because he makes the first move, reaching into his inner pocket to pull out a handkerchief. The corner is embroidered in delicate burgundy thread, the initialsDCdecorating the corner.
Talk about fancy. Who casually carries around handkerchiefs these days?
“The wedding planner on your wedding day,” he comments once I’ve taken the handkerchief from him. “That’s low.”
I frown. “You heard that, huh?”
“Hard not to.”
Wiping my eyes, I briefly wonder if I’m one of those girls who can pull off the hot mess aesthetic. Signs point to unlikely. As if these last forty-eight hours haven’t been mortifying enough, I now find myself sitting not five feet away from one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever laid eyes on and I look like shit.
Hey God, it’s me. Would you mind —oh, I don’t know— giving me a break?
“You’re better off without him,” the stranger says.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The last thing I want right now are unsolicited comments about my crumbling personal life. Instead of telling him to mind his own business, I say, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You’ll be fine.”
His response is blunt, but it isn’t exactly harsh. I actually appreciate his directness. I can’t count how many people have tried to console me, coddle me, spew all sorts of Pinterest quote board BS about how love is a journey, how marriage takes work andblah blahblah. Buddy over here is the first person since my disastrous would-be wedding to give me a straight answer.
“I just don’t get it,” I mumble, scrunching up the soft silk of the handkerchief in my hands. “It was his idea to get married so soon. He clearly wasn’t ready, so why…” I shake my head. “Sorry. You probably have a flight to catch. I won’t keep you.”
He glances at his wristwatch, and I notice how big his hands are. Thick knuckles, beefy wrists. I catch a glimpse of ink gracing his skin, but it disappears beneath the crisp cuff of his sleeve. “If I didn’t want to talk to you, I wouldn’t…” He arches a brow slightly, expectant.
“Marina,” I supply. “My friends call me Arin.”
He doesn’t smile, but I swear I catch a glimmer of something in those dark eyes of his. “Marina,” he repeats, testing my name on his tongue. “A pleasure.”
I snort, too exhausted to worry about sounding foolish. If I haven’t scared him off already, I doubt my dumb laugh will do the trick. “And you?” I ask. “Do you have a name, or are you trying hard to keep up yourinternational man of mysteryvibe?”
The corner of his lips tick up into the smallest of amused grins. He sticks his hand out to shake, easily enveloping my smaller one. His palms are deliciously rough. For a moment, I wonder what they’d look like wrapped around more than just my fingers. My skin tingles at the thought of his hands gently gripping my knee, slipping beneath my shirt…
“Dominic,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I smile. The name suits him. “Dominic,” I repeat. “So, where are you flying off to today?”
“Milan, and then a quick stop in Sicily.”
