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She throws her hands up in the air and glares at me. “Then why are we here? Do you need a free meal or something?”
Ouch. Little does she know I could buy this fucking restaurant if I wanted to.
I chuckle, not taking her bait. She can be as bitchy as she wants, I know she’s disappointed. I feel bad about that.
“Like I said, Amalia, I didn’t write the book, but I know the person who did. They asked me to inform you that it cannot be published. I’m sorry about that.”
She drums her fingers on the white tablecloth, ignoring the waiter’s offer to take our food order, and I keep an eye on the knife by her left hand to make sure she’s not about to stab me with it. “So. You sent a manuscript to a publisher. What did you think was going to happen?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, actually. I don’t know shit about publishing. Except for what I like to read.”
“Yeah? And what do you like to read?”
Damn. She’s got me there. But I think fast. “I like that new book out by Levi Maverick. That’s pretty good.”
Shit. Why did I say that?
She drops her head back and sighs. “Right. Everyone loves his book. The company where I work published him. Honestly, and I know I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t know what people see in his writing. I can’t stand it.”
Holy fuck. Did she really just dump on Levi’s book?
I fight my laughter. It’s not easy.
Wait until I tell Levi she can’t stand his book. This is too goddamn funny. I really like this woman, now.
“Amalia, what would you like for dinner?” I ask when the waiter returns so she’s forced to choose.
“I’ll have the duck,” she says, handing him her menu.
“And I’ll have the jackfruit crab cakes with vegan remoulade,” I say.
“You’re a vegetarian?”
I nod. “Yes. Why?”
“You don’t look like one.”
What the hell does a vegetarian look like?
“Yeah, well, I’m easing into it. Got to eat a more plant-based diet. You know?”
She nibbles on a breadstick. “So how do I find out who wrote the manuscript? I need to meet with her. Or him.”
“That’s where we have a problem, Amalia.” I pour her more wine. She’s going to need it.
Fuck, she’s cute. I force myself to stop staring at her lush lips and return my gaze to her blue eyes, which, even though she’s pissed as hell, sparkle in the restaurant’s low light.
“I’m afraid they don’t want to come forward. They don’t want it known they wrote it. So, it can’t be published.”
The disappointment that washes over her face just about kills me, and now I feel so shitty I want to scoot over to her side of the banquet and throw an arm around her.
Actually, I’d want to do that even if she didn’t look like she just got the worst news of her life.
That’s how smitten with her I am.
13
WYATT
