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Max smirks, his eyes scanning the menu. "Stop sucking up, Giuseppe. I'm just here for lunch."
He shuffles. "Ti devo delle scuse. I've been meaning to-"
"Stop," Max drawls. "Look beside me." Giuseppe glances at me, swallowing hard. I bite my bottom lip and smile awkwardly up at him. "Make her something special. If she fuckinglovesit, I'll credit this month." Max finally raises his amused gaze to Giuseppe, a provocative curve to his lips. "Generous, right?"
Ugh, he's such a menace.
Giuseppe brightens. "E per il tuo piatto principale?"
Max closes his menu and slides it to the other side of the table. "Gnocchi and a Jameson's neat. For Cassidy, no unpasteurized cheese. Cook everything thoroughly. No alcohol!"
He nods knowingly. "Anything to drink, Miss?"
"Champagne," I state teasingly and then grin at Max, who is now scowling at me. "Kidding. Orange juice, please."
Giuseppe rushes away, his demeanour more relaxed than when he approached. Max spins to face me, hanging his arm over the headrest. His grey-blue eyes rake over my face. . . They are like a vacuum or a tornado or a tsunami, akin in both beauty and destruction. Whenever they focus on me, sense, rationality, and, well, my knickers fly away. . . I clear my throat. Clear my thoughts.
His lips pull to the side. "Did that bother you?"
I shrug nonchalantly. "What? The baby scan or the weird interaction I just witnessed?"
His hand encloses the curve of my neck, his fingers stroking my skin affectionately. "You have just saved him thousands of dollars, little one."
Trying to remain cavalier, I say, "What if I don't like the food?"
He grins wider, his left cheek indenting with a dimple which I just can't resist.
I raise my finger, poking the little divot. "Boop."
He shakes his head, veiling a chuckle despite his serious mood. "You will."
I trace the outline of his unshaven jawline. "Can we talk about the baby?"
He nods, staring over my shoulder at his hand on my neck. "Sure."
When my skin ignites under his featherlight caress, I roll my shoulder up to squeeze his hand against my cheek. I sigh and say, "What was that like for you? The scan?"
His eyes meet mine again. "I don't have the words."
I lift a blonde brow at him, thinking he's copping out of answering. "Is Max Butcher speechless?"
He deadpans. "That's what I said."
Oh my God, he's serious.
He's speechless. . . My heart pirouettes. "Would you like me to give you some words?" I ask.
Before he can answer or I can tell him anyway, a middle-aged waitress arrives at our table with a tray. She sets down an ice bucket, an empty tumbler, an entire bottle of Jameson's, and an orange juice in a highball on the table. She then nods and quickly leaves.
Max prepares his own drink, adding the ice and then pouring the whiskey. He encloses the glass in his hand but doesn't drink any. "Go ahead."
I stare at my orange juice in contemplation before murmuring through a smile, "Magical. Privileged. Thankful. Real. Love."
His finger taps at his whiskey glass. "Love?"
"Of course. I'm in love with him. I didn’t think it was possible to love a strang. . ." I trail off when Max's face tightens.
He presses the glass to his mouth, looking at me over the rim before draining it entirely. He sets it down, his eyes still trained on me. They narrow, suppressing something too strong for him to show. It's an intense stare that is veiled with pride and guarded with warning. "Is he going to take you away from me?"
