Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(3)

I return to the dining room without looking in the wolf’s direction. When I get to the bald guy at table twelve, he grunts his thanks around a mouthful of hash as I refill his coffee.

Then I feel a strange crackle over my skin. It’s like a current of electricity, prickling hot and stinging. I glance up.

The wolf stares across the room at me as if he’s got me in the sights of a gun.

Nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I hurry back to the counter and return the coffee carafe to the machine, then start wiping things down and tidying up. It’s late, and there are only two customers—one of whom isn’t eating—so there’s not much for me to do except busy work as I wonder what the wolf’s real name is, if he’s married, and if this is the last time I’ll ever see him.

He’s probably on his phone right now trying to find a new place for coffee that employs mentally functioning waitresses.

After a moment, a deep voice from behind me says, “I was shot by a half-blind, half-drunk hillbilly once.”

Startled, I jump and whirl around.

There he is, standing on the other side of the counter, dark and fierce and gorgeous, looking at me like nothing else exists in the diner. The city. The world.

“Except he wasn’t a hillbilly. Or half-drunk.” He pauses meaningfully. “Or half-blind, either.”

His dark eyes transmit a warning I receive loud and clear: I’m dangerous. Stay away.

Too late. His hungry eyes and hypnotic voice have already snared me. Despite my promise to myself, I have to know more. “So we’ve both been shot.”

“Aye. It’s an interesting thing to have in common, don’t you think?”

As if I could think at the moment, what with his blistering masculinity wreaking havoc on my brain. But I’m pretty sure his question was rhetorical, so I stay quiet.

His gaze drops to my nametag. “Tru,” he reads. “Is that short for something?”

I hesitate, but decide to go ahead and tell him the story. “It’s short for Truvy. I was named after Dolly Parton’s character in the movie Steel Magnolias. She ran a beauty parlor.”

The wolf tilts his head, waiting for me to provide an explanation that might actually make sense.

He’ll have to wait a long time for that.

“My mom’s a huge Dolly fan. All her daughters are named after a character in one of Dolly’s movies.”

It sounds even worse out loud. My nerves get the best of me, and I start to babble.

“My oldest sister is Doralee, who was a sassy secretary in Nine to Five. Then there’s Mona, the second oldest, who was named after the madam who ran a brothel called The Chicken Ranch in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. I would feel sorry for Mona about that, but honestly, she’s a bit of a pill, very judgmental and self-righteous, so it serves her right to be named after a prostitute. Or maybe she’s self-righteous and judgmental because she’s named after a prostitute? I never thought of that.

“Anyway, then there’s Louisa. She’s another Steel Magnolias character, because that’s my mother’s all-time favorite movie. The name fits because the character was grouchy and short-tempered, and so is my sister.

“Finally, there’s me. Truvy. The baby.” I clear my throat. “I have four brothers, too, but my dad got to name them. Fortunately, he’s not a Dolly fan.”

As if everything I’ve just disclosed is completely normal, the wolf nods. “That’s something else we have in common. I’m one of eight, too.”

My self-consciousness disappears because I’m too busy being shocked. “You’re kidding.”

“My parents were Irish Catholic. Old school. For them, birth control was a mortal sin.”

I say drily, “I wish my parents had a religious excuse. I’m pretty sure they were just too poor to afford birth control.”

The wolf stares at me like I’m an alien. I’m sure I’ve said something wrong, until he says, “And that’s number four.”

Number four? What does that mean? “Um…”

“I come from a poor family. So do you. That’s the fourth thing we have in common.”

He seems disturbed by that fact. I don’t blame him. Time to make a joke.

“If you tell me next that your favorite ice cream flavor is pistachio, we’re probably destined to be together forever.”

Dear God, those words actually just came out of my mouth.

As the devastatingly gorgeous man I just spoke that horrifying sentence to stares at me silently, I will the floor to open up and swallow me.

Alas, it doesn’t. Time to salvage what’s left of my self-respect.

“Well, it’s been great chatting with you, but I should get back to work.”

He studies me with unblinking intensity. Neither of us moves. We simply stare at each other.

Heat suffuses my cheeks.

A muscle flexes in his jaw.

I’m ninety percent certain he knows my nipples are hardening.

Finally, he moves. Never taking his gaze off my face, he reaches into his coat, pulls out his wallet, removes a few bills, and sets them down onto the counter. He closes the wallet and slips it back inside his coat pocket.

For a moment, he looks like he’s trying to decide about something, his brow furrowed and his expression pensive. Then he exhales a slow breath.