Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)
J.T. Geissinger
Preface
Thank you for reading! To get new release information, please sign up for my newsletter or follow me on Bookbub.
For Jay, the beautiful soul who brightens my darkness.
These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder
Which, as they kiss, consume.
~ Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene VI
1
Tru
“Your big bad wolf is back again.”
I look up from the coffee machine as my co-worker Carla pauses beside me, nudging me with her elbow and speaking under her breath. I don’t need to turn and follow her gaze across the diner to know who she’s talking about. The nickname and the sudden spike in my pulse are proof enough.
It’s been seven weeks since the man in black last came in. Seven weeks since I’ve seen that thick dark hair, those big rough hands, those expensive Armani suits that do nothing to gentrify him.
You can try to dress up a lion all you want, but it’ll still be obvious that he’s king of the jungle.
“He’s not mine,” I say in the same low tone, watching coffee drip slowly into the glass carafe and feeling my heartbeat in every part of my body.
It’s difficult not to turn around and look at him.
Difficult, but not surprising. I’ve never known another man I enjoy looking at more.
Carla scoffs. “He’s been sitting at the same table in your section for a year, Tru.”
Eleven months. But who’s counting?
“If it’s your day off when he comes in, he leaves. He’s shot down every other waitress who’s tried to flirt with him—including me, and these boobs never fail—and he damn sure doesn’t come here for the food.”
She makes a face at the plate in her hand. Grease oozes from a pile of corned beef hash, yellow as phlegm, already congealing. Buddy’s All Night Diner isn’t known for the quality of its fare.
“He doesn’t talk to me, either, except to order his coffee.”
Carla rolls her eyes. “Please. The man talks plenty loud with those big bad wolf eyes of his. One of these days, he’s gonna gobble you up like Red Riding Hood’s grandma.”
I smile, shaking my head. “Sure. He’s just waiting for the perfect full moon, right?”
She tilts back her head and makes a soft owOooo wolf cry toward the ceiling.
“Go away, crazy person. I’m trying to work here.”
Hips swinging, she moves away to deliver the hash to the bald guy at table twelve. I take a moment to breathe and attempt to steady my nerves, then I grab a mug from the shelf over the coffee machine and head toward the wolf’s table.
He’s waiting.
Watching me.
Unsmiling as always, with burning dark eyes and the kind of focus and stillness I’ve only ever seen in documentaries of big cats as they lie in wait in tall grasses for a gazelle to pass.
This is always how he looks at me: in hunger and silence. But unlike an African cat on the prowl, the wolf’s gaze holds something wary underneath. A kind of enforced restraint.
His hands are spread flat on the scarred table top as he watches me approach, as if that’s his way of keeping control of them.
Concentrating on appearing nonchalant, I stop at his tableside, set the mug down, and pour him a coffee. He likes it the same way he seems to like everything else: black.
I say shyly, “Hi. It’s nice to see you again.”
Yay me, keeping my voice even despite the butterflies in my stomach and the lump in my throat. Though I’ve never shared an actual conversation with him, the man has always been hell on my nerves.
He murmurs, “It’s nice to be seen.”
Oh, that Irish brogue. I’d almost forgotten how delicious it is. Rich and throaty, with a rumble to it like a purr. Suppressing a shiver, I glance up and give him a tentative smile.
He doesn’t return it.
As is my custom whenever he visits, I indulge myself with an inventory of his visible tattoos. One decorates each knuckle of his left hand. Stars. A crown. A knife plunged through a skull. Another one is a black square that looks like it might be covering something else. These fascinate me, as does the tip of the tattoo peeking above the collar of his starched white dress shirt.
I find this collection of ink interesting and mysterious, like him.
Deciding today will be the day we’ll finally have a conversation, I gather my courage and take another steadying breath. “Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
I tried to imbue the comment with light sarcasm—which would’ve been apropos considering how bad the weather is—but it came out heavy and flat, like a brick dropped onto the table between us.
The wolf gazes at me in inscrutable silence. The smallest furrow appears between his dark brows.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. Just when I’m about to turn and leave, he says suddenly, “I love when it rains in the city. It reminds me of home.”
Judging by the look on his face, he wasn’t expecting that, either.
I ask tentatively, “Home is Ireland?”
He hesitates, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Then he simply nods.