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“What would you like, then?” June asks.
“What I really want isn’t on the menu.” Phantom sears me with his gaze. “But I’ll settle for the chicken breast sandwich and a side of fries.”
June must be used to his antics because she doesn’t so much as flinch at the innuendo. “Got it,” she says, “I’ll get these right up.”
My flesh is on fire. I clear my throat in an attempt to get my bearings. “So tell me, Phantom,” I say. “How long have you been coming here?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Everyone here seems to know you as Phantom.”
“Everyone here is paid to make sure the customer is satisfied,” he says. “I prefer to be known as Phantom, so they grant me that.”
“No,” I say. “It’s more than that. They all seem to know you. But you’re the only one here in a mask. What gives?”
“This is just the way I prefer to dress.”
“Yeah…I’m not buying it.” I smile, hoping I don’t have lipstick smeared all over my teeth. “I’m going to figure out all of your secrets, Mr. Phantom.”
“Are you, now?”
“I am.”
“Then you know what that means, don’t you, Angel?”
“What?”
“That means I will find out your secrets as well.”
Chapter Four
Phantom
Sometimes I wonder if the phantom is who I truly am and my alter ego is the one without the costume.
There are times when I feel most like myself as the phantom. I can do things as the phantom that I could never do as myself. They’d definitely be frowned upon.
When I made the comment about secrets, Angel looked down at her napkin.
So she has a secret?
Everyone has secrets. As Gaston Leroux himself said in The Phantom of the Opera, “Our lives are one masked ball.” When I’m the phantom, others seem to feel more at ease being who they want to be in the moment as well. A lot of times, that means they let their secrets go.
My only secret is what I enjoy in the bedroom. My fantasies and tastes run deep and dark, and as I gaze at my angel of music still staring at her napkin, I’m not sure she’s ready to explore that side of herself.
Still, though…I have this ridiculous need to know her name.
So unlike me, and so not what this side of me is about.
Chapter Five
Frankie
Secrets?
I have to hold back a laugh.
I have no secrets. Everybody knows my business. Everybody knows—hell, even I knew—Pendleton Berry is a sleazebag. That he was running around on me.
You know what? It’s kind of nice to just be by myself.
I don’t know who this guy is. He’s masked, after all. What are the chances that I’ll ever see him again?
June slides a plate in front of me, and I inhale the robust and smoky fragrance of the beef and bacon. Once Phantom is served, I take a bite of my burger.
I don’t even try to be dainty about it. When grease runs down my chin, I dab it away with my napkin, and I don’t make excuses. I’m hungry, the burger is damned good, the beef is juicy, and with all the toppings, yes, it drips.
I’ve always been the kind of woman who tries to be ultra-feminine around men. What good did it do? I couldn’t get Pendleton Berry to be faithful to me.
This man? He’s wildly attractive—even though I don’t really know what he looks like—and I find myself liking him. Liking him a lot more than I should. So why do I feel like I’m more myself with this masked man than I ever was with Penn or anyone else? I wouldn’t have been caught dead with grease running down my chin at dinner with Penn. No. I’d be cutting off a tiny slice of the sandwich with a fork and knife.
Nope, that’s not true. I wouldn’t be eating a burger at all. I’d be eating a salad with grilled chicken, dressing on the side.
“I like a woman who enjoys her food,” Phantom says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yeah. You have a lovely figure, and it’s great that you don’t eat like a rabbit all the time to make sure you keep it.”
Boy, this guy doesn’t know me at all.
Normally, I love to eat, but before the food bender after Penn gave me the news, I had been eating like a rabbit.
“I exercise,” I say after wiping my lips again. “I like to run, mostly.”
“A runner?”
“Yeah. I’m out every weekend. Weekday mornings when the weather cooperates.”
“Something we have in common, then. I also enjoy running.”
Did he just divulge a piece of information to me? I can’t help myself. I smile and then take another bite of my burger, again wiping the drips from my chin with my napkin and again not caring.
Sitting across from this man who’s masking his identity—this man I’ll probably never see again—I don’t care. I don’t care if I’m not ultra-perfect in my table manners. It doesn’t matter.
