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Frowning at him, I mutter, “Seriously?”
“How many fucking years?” he barks.
“Five.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Want me to rectify that problem right now?”
What?
I move backward until I’m out of his reach. “It’s not a problem, and no thanks, I’ll pass.”
When he comes closer, desire tightens his features, and while I’m stunned by the sudden change in his mood, he lifts his hand to my face. His thumb tugs at my bottom lip as he leans closer, and I find myself holding my breath.
Instead of kissing me, his lips brush along my jaw until he reaches my ear. “Careful, my little mouse. Two can play this game, and I’m much better at it than you.”
“I’m not playing a game,” I whisper as I bring my hands to his sides.
He pulls back until our eyes meet. “I deal with thieves and murderers on a daily basis. I can smell a lie a mile away.”
Crap.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You don’t really want to get to know me.”
Damn, he’s good.
I swallow hard because I’m all out of ideas.
What do I do now?
He tilts his head, and this time, when he leans forward, his mouth brushes against mine. “But I do want to get to know you.”
That means he’s definitely attracted to me. I just have to find a way to use it to my advantage.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
His tone is downright predatory as he whispers, “Everything.”
Giving him a taste of his own medicine, I say, “I’m thirty, excellent at cooking, and beach sand makes me itch. My favorite color is green.”
A genuine smile spreads over his face, and it leaves me a little breathless because he looks way too freaking hot for me to handle.
“Is ginger your natural color?”
“Yes.”
He moves away from me and takes off his jacket. My eyes lock on the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants before he takes a seat on one of the couches. He rests his arm on the back of the couch, then gestures with a jerk of his head for me to take a seat.
Only when I sit down on one of the other couches does he ask, “Have you always wanted to be a chef?”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Yes. My mom taught me how to cook, and I always found it relaxing.”
“Were you planning on working at a restaurant again?”
“Yes. I had a list of four restaurants I was going to visit so they’d know I’m available as a sous chef.” Scrunching my nose, I correct myself. “Make that three. The one reminds me too much of you, which is a pity. It was one of my favorites.”
He lets out a burst of laughter. “How the fuck do I remind you of a restaurant?”
“La Torrisi,” I say.
