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“Dante?” I say, stepping back once more with a hint of panic, bumping into the car becausewhat the fuck is happening?
He steps back as well, raising his hands in a surrender pose.
Fuck, he’s handsome, I think to myself as I get a better look at him. A break in his eyebrow from a scar is the only imperfection I can see. I’ve gotten glimpses through the dark, in the shadows, but never saw his full face.
I'm kind of glad I didn't. If I knew this was what I was dealing with all those weeks, I probably would have been a lot more nervous.
“I swear, I didn’t plan this or anything creepy,” he says with a laugh. “Just saw your flashers and—”
“I’ve never shown you my flashers,” I blurt because apparently, I’m a five-year-old boy andJesus Christ, help me.
He laughs.
I think if he had laughed as soon as I got out of the car, I would have known who he was based on that and the way my body reacts to it alone.
“Valid, I guess. But I swear I’m not a stalker. I’m just in the right place at the right time.”
I blink at him a few times, biting the inside of my lip.
“Let me help you. It’s cold, it's getting late, and you’re on the side of the road.”
Every common-sense alarm in my body flares to life because this is a man who, once a week, hires me for six hours to . . . chat.
“I’ve got a buddy. I’ll call him up. He’ll give you a tow, put on a new tire for you, and I’ll cover it. Just go to dinner with me.”
“God, that’s . . . That's so kind, truly, but I can’t. I don’t even know you. That’s not right.”
“Got a lot of favors, babe. I can afford it.” I look at him and then behind my car. A sleek black Corvette is parked there, sparkling like it gets waxed every day.
The man can afford it.
His shoes alone cost $400, after all.
“I don’t even know you.”
“The fuck you don’t,” he says, and I can’t help but laugh. “You know my first pet was a dog, and I know your favorite food is the chocolate chip cookies your sister makes at her bakery.” I did tell him that, didn’t I? “You know my mom died when I was five, and I know yours died when you were ten.”
“Well, we’re both members of the dead-mom club, so that must mean you’re safe, right? Serial killers never have a dead mom.” He smiles at my words, and I see it now, the smile I’ve been dying to see in full view when I could hear it in his words through the shadows. His handsomeness overtakes the space, making air freeze in my lungs. His smile is big, laugh lines carving his cheeks, and I have to wonder if maybe—just maybe—my luck has changed.
This could be my moment where it all turns for the better.
“Let me take you to dinner. I’ll tell you more reasons I’m definitely not a serial killer,” he says, and I smile. He’s good at this: flirting, smiling, getting a woman to do his bidding.
“Do women tell you no often?”
“No. They don’t.”Of course they don’t.
“Ahh, a Casanova.” I cross my arms over my chest, and he laughs. It sounds good. So fucking good. Deep and sexy, like I can feel it moving along my skin. “A Casanova who spends his days at a strip club?”
He takes a step, entering my personal space but not touching me.
I don’t feel panic like common sense tells me I should.
I feelheat, despite the chill in the air.
“Had business at the club, a meeting.”Of course you did,I think. “Never spent money there in my life. Saw you on the stage, knew you were something special, needed to know more about you.” The breath freezes in my lungs. “Haven’t heard a single thing yet telling me I’m wrong, that you aren’t something exquisite. Except, maybe, that you don’t like cilantro.”
“It tastes like soap. It’s a genetic thing.”
