Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(29)

“I know who it is. You want a sweet wine, I assume?”

“I want a cheap wine.”

“I don’t have any cheap wine.”

“Then I don’t want any.”

He squats down, grabs a bottle, and stands again. “This one it is.” His phone starts to ring and he ignores it, motioning toward the kitchen. “Let’s sit at the bar,” he says, already moving that direction.

“I don’t drink much,” I call after him, his shoulders especially impressive under the stretch of the cotton tee, a hint of the dreaded tattoo peeking from one shoulder. “I’ll waste the bottle.”

He rounds the bar and appears on the other side in the kitchen, reaching above him to a cabinet. I grab his phone, and join him, claiming a high-backed leather barstool at the same moment he sets two crystal glasses on the counter. I, in turn, set his phone in between them.

He ignores it and fills both glasses. “Try it and make sure you like it.”

I fight the urge to push him to take the call. He knows who it is. He knows it’s not an emergency. Unless he doesn’t. “It’s Seth,” I say.

He picks up the phone and hits the button on the side that I can only assume is the volume, then rests his hands on the other side of the bar. “Try the wine, sweetheart.”

“I was just worried—”

“I know.”

Okay. He knows who it is so all is well, only his energy says differently but I don’t get the chance to press him. The doorbell rings. “That will be the food,” he says. “And once again, I’ll be right back.” He disappears on the other side of the bar and I stare at the phone. Oh God. Is Seth his father? Some people call their parents by their names. It’s odd, but so is his father having sex in the kitchen with his friend’s mother.

Almost too quickly it seems Shane reappears but this time on my side of the bar. “Your phone’s ringing,” he says, surprising me by offering me my purse and setting the bag of food on his stool.

My gut knots and I accept it, forcing myself not to react. “Well since no one offering me a job would be calling now,” I say, hanging it on the back of my stool, “I’m not taking calls either.” I inhale the rich scent of spices. “And I swear that ravioli smells better this time than last.”

“You can take the call, Emily. It’s really okay.”

“I don’t want to take the call.” And I don’t want to invite questions. I scoot off my seat. “I’ll get silverware if you tell me where it is.” I dart around him before he can stop me.

“By the refrigerator,” he calls out. “And we don’t need plates.”

I pull open the drawer, and stare at the expensive silverware, glad for the short retreat that’s giving me time to shove aside the worry threatening to take control of me. It can’t have control. I can’t survive that way. I grab two forks and shut the drawer again, turning to face Shane. “Do you want water?”

“I’ll take a bottle.”

Turning to the fridge, I open it and note he has hardly any food. Okay no food. Just protein shakes and water. “Do you eat at home ever?” I call out, grabbing him a bottle, and heading back around the bar to find our take-out containers still sealed, and in front of our places, the bag set aside.

“I work a lot and order room service.”

I claim my seat and set the water next to him. “I guess that explains why you chose to live in a hotel.”

“This place is my father’s,” he says. “We have a family business I chose not to join, but they needed my legal expertise short term so it was convenient.”

“And now they convinced you to stay long term.”

“I convinced myself to stay, and I told a Realtor to find me a place today.”

“Wait,” I say, forcing myself to bite back my questions that will lead to his questions. “Please tell me this isn’t where he brought his woman.”

He freezes. “Holy f*ck, that’s not what I want in my head when sleeping in my bed, but thank you for that motivation to get the hell out of this place.” He reaches for my wine glass. “And a good reason to drink. Try it. If you don’t like it I’ll grab another bottle before we start eating.”

I accept the glass and our hands collide, my eyes lifting to his, the connection I feel stunning me with its force. “Don’t pretend to like it if you don’t,” he warns.

“I wouldn’t do that, but we aren’t opening another bottle no matter what.” I tilt the glass up and sip, a really yummy sweet explosion of flavors finding my tongue. “It’s quite possibly the best glass of wine I’ve ever had and please tell me it doesn’t cost as much as your suit.”

“You know how much my suit costs, but not the wine.”

It’s an observation meant to invite information, which I don’t give. “You learn wine by being around someone who actually knows wine. Or taking a personal interest beyond an occasional drink.”

“And you know how much a custom suit costs by being around money.”

“Or arrogant attorneys that wouldn’t dare shop on the bargain racks.”

My quick rebuttal earns me the tiniest hint of a curve to his lips. “I think you just called me arrogant.”