Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(35)

“Yeah, I’ve been setting the bar crazy low lately, with all the sweats and junk, so I just thought, you know, why not give looking like myself another go?”

His gaze slowly scans me. “You’re beautiful no matter what you wear.”

“Thanks,” I say, the compliment surprising me. There was not a stitch of sarcasm to it. Weird. He’s wearing faded jeans and loosely laced combat boots with an unbuttoned black Henley shirt and a black coat. It’s strange, how the man can look so well put-together with whatever just thrown on, no thought given to it at all. “You look nice, too.”

Lorenzo glances at himself, making a face, before cutting his eyes my way. “Don’t make this shit weird, Scarlet.”

I laugh as he shrugs off his coat, draping it over his arm. He takes a few steps away, toward his library, before pausing in the hall.

He lingers there, his back to me, like something has him torn, before he slowly turns around again. “You going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I figured I’d get some air,” I say, motioning toward the front door. “You know, get out of your hair for a while.”

“Get out of my hair for a while.”

“Yep.”

“Pity,” he says. “I kind of like you in my hair.”

He walks away, disappearing into his library, leaving the door open behind him. I stand here for a moment, my gaze shifting between the hall and the front door, before following him, my black heels clicking against the wooden floor, so I know he hears me approaching.

He’s sitting in the chair, hands laced together on the top of his head, the sleeves of his shirt shoved up to his elbows. His legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankles. While he looks relaxed, I sense the tension. It rolls off of him like waves, written in his silence.

I stall there, mostly still in the hall, and lean against the doorframe as I regard him.

He stares at me for a moment before saying, “You can come in, you know.”

“I know.”

“Yet you’re standing there,” he says, “making shit weird.”

I smile softly. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d want to come along.”

“Come along.”

“Yes.”

“To get out of my hair.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t say anything.

It’s still tense. And awkward. I can feel it. Can you? I mean, look, I know how stupid I’m probably sounding at the moment, but I’m so out of my element here. It’s not like I’m exactly fluent in relationships. I’ve got no friends... no family besides my daughter... never even had a boyfriend, if we’re being technical. Just a string of men who used me for my body and now I have him, and whatever this thing is, and it’s all just so foreign. But things feel weird, he’s right, and I don’t really know how to make it better.

“I mean, no offense, but you’re a bit of an asshole,” I say. “Figured you might want to get away from that dude for a while.”

Again, he says nothing.

“Or not,” I mumble, giving him a small smile that he doesn’t return before I push away from the doorframe, going back out into the hall. I head for the front door, opening it, and am about to walk out when I hear movement behind me.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see Lorenzo as he slips on his coat, coming toward me, moving past me, walking right outside without a word. I join him, shutting the front door as I eye him peculiarly. It’s seventy degrees out, yet he’s bundled up like it’s still winter.

“You hungry?” I ask as we start to walk away from the house, leaving his car parked in the driveway, since I figure the subway will suffice. He follows my lead, like he’s just tagging along.

“Depends,” he says. “You offering?”

“Of course,” I say. “You ever dine and dash?”

He laughs at that. “All the time.”

“Awesome.”

We head into the city, switching trains twice. It takes almost an hour before we finally get off around Broadway. I’m not sure where we’re going, or really even why, but somewhere along the way Lorenzo takes the lead like he’s got a destination in mind.

We end up at a restaurant near Central Park, one of those fancy ass billionaire call girl places, the wine and dine and sixty-nine kind of gals, where you treat her to champagne and caviar before turning her out at The Plaza until your Viagra gives out.

You get where I’m going with this?

Me, with my face all scraped up from the alleyway scuffle, and him being, well... him. We’re out of place here, but Lorenzo doesn’t seem to notice. He waltzes on in the door as if he owns the place, approaching the hostess and saying, “need a table for two,” as if barking that will negate the ‘by reservation only’ sign hanging up near us.

The hostess impatiently mutters the reservation policy before she looks up, silencing mid-sentence. She’s quiet for a second, caught of guard, before she says, “Sure thing, Mr. Gambini. Coming right up.”

Oh-kay.

She shows us to a small table in the back corner, dropping off two tiny one-page menus full of shit that’s foreign to me, like Miyazaki Wagyu (some fancy ass kind of steak, according to Lorenzo). I’m reading through it, making faces as I try to decipher it. “Have you eaten here before?”