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“Sixty-one dollars for a pizzahasto be a joke,” I insist. “Was there gold leaf in the crust or something?”
“Is that an actual question?”
“No,” I retort, “it’s an outrage.”
The man’s face quickly sours. “I’m afraid I have no control over the menu, ma’am. Or the pricing. You’ll need to pay for what you consumed.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to just cut out my kidneys instead?” I snap.
“Ma’am—”
“I really, really need you to not call me that.”
“Listen, miss—”
“No!”
I jump up, knocking my chair over backwards. The front door chimes just then as a couple walks in off the street, bundled up against the cold, but beautiful and beautifully matched together. They both gawk at me with jaws wide open.
I know how I must look to them: crazy. Unhinged. My hair is a mess and my eyes are still red from all the crying I’ve done over the last two days, and I’m yelling at this stupid, condescending server for something that is maybe partially but not really his fault.
This is rock bottom, I think. Turns out it smells like pizza. Who knew?
“I’m not payingsixty-onedollars for a pizza,” I insist, my voice catching and wobbling dangerously.
“Youwillpay,” the man snarls. He reaches for me, that pale, grasping claw of a hand looming closer and closer like something out of a nightmare.
I swat it away and stumble backwards. There’s a hall behind me that leads to the bathrooms and, at the very end of it, a black door markedEXIT. I trip my way there, feeling frantic and desperate. The walls are closing in around me.
The maître d’ follows. His face is twisted into an enraged mask. “Listen here, you stupid bitch, you are not running out on my—”
“Francesco.”
My head snaps to the side. I hadn’t even noticed there was another door in the hallway. But there is, and it’s open, and there’s a man standing on the threshold. He’s huge, tall enough to almost brush the ceiling, and broad enough to take up the whole of the entryway. The intensity of his pale gray eyes takes me by surprise. I find myself leaning away from him on pure instinct.
Something about him terrifies me.
“Mr. Orlov,” the maître d’ balks, his demeanor changing immediately to contrite and submissive. “I’m sorry about this, sir. This woman is trying to—”
The man holds up a hand. Francesco—how fitting; a stupid name for a stupid guy—clams up instantly.
Then the man looks at me. He doesn’t blink, and I can’t help but stare back. Those eyes are shockingly silver. Full moon on a cold night kind of silver. “What is your name?”
I swallow, suddenly afraid for reasons I don’t think I could ever possibly explain. “Paige,” I croak.
He’s undeniably gorgeous—roguish five o’clock shadow, dazzlingly white teeth, a devil-may-careje ne sais quoithat radiates from him like if “getting into trouble” were a cologne.
But beneath that is a darkness I can’t touch or name. That’s what scares me.
Silver Eyes nods like he expected exactly that. “Are you still hungry, Paige?”
I hesitate. I’m considering not saying anything, but then the undeniably loud rumble of my still-famished stomach betrays me.
The corner of Silver Eyes’s mouth twitches at the noise. I’m pretty sure it’s the closest he’ll ever get to a smile.
“I thought so,” he murmurs. Without looking away, he tells Francesco, “Put what Ms. Paige ate on my tab. She and I will also take a pollo e funghi and a sorrentina. You can bring both items to my table.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Francesco stammers. He bows, then scurries away.
