Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(12)

“It said—”

“I have a Cognac and a wine,” a waitress announces, leaving me hanging on his words.

“Wine for the lady,” Shane instructs and we both lean back to allow her to deposit our drinks in front of us, giving me the opportunity to discover our waitress is a gorgeous redhead, with deep cleavage exposing DD breasts, which make my D cup feel like an A.

“Are you ready to order?” she asks.

“I haven’t looked at the menu,” I say, reaching for it, and glancing at Shane. “You probably know what you want.”

“Indeed,” he says, the look in his eyes sizzling, as he adds, “Very decisively.”

I flush, quite certain, that yes, he has noted my brief walk down insecurity lane, and while I’m embarrassed, I am quite charmed at the way he’s made sure I know my concern was without merit. I shut the menu again. “What do you recommend?”

“They’re well known for their brown butter ravioli,” he replies, “which I have every time I visit.”

“It’s amazing,” the waitress interjects. “Melt-in-your-mouth good.”

“You had me at brown butter,” I say. “And anything with pasta and cheese, makes my favorite foods list.”

“Three check marks on the list,” Shane says, gathers our menus and offers them to the waitress. “Two of the house raviolis it is then.”

“Got it,” the waitress confirms. “Any drinks, aside from what you have, with your meal?”

I shake my head but Shane motions to my wine. “Try it and make sure you like it.”

It’s an order, which seems to come naturally to him, but it’s also him actually caring that I’m satisfied. I take a quick sip, and the fruity sweet liquid is pure perfection. “It’s great,” I tell him, and eye the waitress. “I love it.”

“Well then,” she says. “I’ll put the order into the kitchen.” She departs and Shane reaches for the glass I’m still holding, covering my hand with his. “May I?”

Heat rushes through me, the idea of his mouth where mine had been more than a little sexy. “Of course,” I say, sounding and feeling breathless. And when I would offer it to him, he covers my hand over the glass, his eyes capturing mine as he tilts it to drink, then savors it a moment. “Sweet, like your coffee.”

“And you think that means what?” I ask.

He considers me a moment, before releasing my hand and reaches for his glass. “I drink my coffee the way I see the world. Harsh and brutal. And I drink my booze with a smooth kick, the way I try and face my adversaries.”

This is a silly game that has suddenly made my world feel upside down and I laugh without humor. “I don’t see the world as sweet, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

“No. No, you don’t. But you do compartmentalize the bad stuff, while I force myself to stay in the thick of things no matter how bad they are. I’m not sure which is worse.”

I’m not sure if I’m more stunned that he’s nailed me so well, or that he’s actually shared something I find quite personal about himself. “And I make this assessment not from your drink, but the way you handle yourself and the look in your eyes.”

The look in his eyes, I think. I was right. We’re drawn together because we’re both dealing with a demon or two that won’t let us go.

“Am I wrong?” he asks.

“No. You pretty much nailed it. If I don’t compartmentalize, I worry and obsess. It’s just who I am. It started young. My mom said I could fret over my Barbie losing a shoe for hours.”

“That fits the profile of someone who compartmentalizes to survive.”

“And you stand in the fire and let it burn you.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I stand in the fire,” he says, lifting his glass and taking a drink. “I don’t let it burn me.”

“Because you’re good at whatever you do.” It’s not even a question.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m good at whatever I do.” It’s confident, maybe arrogant as well, but it works for him. “What about you?” he asks. “Are you good at what you do?”

We just entered dangerous territory and I reach for my wine. “Let’s hope so, since I’m on an unplanned job search.”

“Unplanned?”

“Right,” I say, glad to share one piece of truth. “Unplanned.” I take a drink, steeling myself for his questions and my lies.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, obviously reading my discomfort.

“It’s fine,” I say, setting my wine aside. “I relocated here from Los Angeles to work for this very rich man, a stockholder of a big holding company.”

“For him or the holding company?”

“Him. I was to be his assistant, but the job was bigger than the title. I saw it as a chance to learn at the highest level of the corporate world. He said he’d mentor me. It was exciting and the pay was spectacular. Unfortunately, two weeks after I arrived, one of his companies folded and he filed for bankruptcy.”

“Now that’s a f*cking bad break.”

“He paid me a month severance—”

“A whole month. That’s generous of him.”