Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(24)

When I’m satisfied with the distance I’ve put between us, I feint right and duck left into the next alley. The space reeks of garbage and wet animal, and I immediately regret my decision, gagging on the odors, but there’s no going back now. Frantic, I speed for the freedom at the other end, placing each step carefully and quietly as I kick into a half run, spurred on by the fear that he could round the corner behind me at any second. Halfway down, I realize I’m not going to make the other side before my pursuer enters the alley. Then it will be just the two of us, with no witnesses around for whatever he might do. I was stupid to go this way, stupid to give up the safety of a public place.

I duck behind a dumpster and crouch low in the shadow it casts. No sooner do I peek around the edge than he appears at the mouth of the alley. My suspicions that he was in fact following me are confirmed when instead of continuing on by, he stops and stares down the corridor. He cranes his neck and takes one step forward but must decide against entering. After a moment, he turns and heads back the way he came from.

I release an unsteady breath, but despite the relief I feel, I stay crouched for another moment or two until I’m sure he’s really gone. When I leave the relative safety of my hiding place, I rush out the other end of the alley as quickly as I can and make for the restaurant where Will is hopefully waiting for me, looking over my shoulder every few steps. My tail doesn’t reappear, but I don’t relax until I can see the restaurant.

When I get there, Will is seated on a park bench outside the quaint Italian eatery, looking anxiously up the opposite end of the street. I guess he’s expecting me to come from the other direction. He’s so intently focused on the opposite way, I’m able to approach him without drawing his attention to me.

I stop just a few feet from him and take a moment to compose myself, slow my breathing and my pulse. Then I clear my throat. He startles at the sound and jumps to his feet. His cheeks redden, probably from embarrassment at being caught unaware, and I take a moment to enjoy having our roles reversed. For once, I’m the one with the smooth moves, and he’s the bumbling bundle of nerves. I look him over from head to toe, and he shifts nervously under my gaze.

He’s certainly dressed for a date, but he looks more hot bad boy than clean-cut suitor in black pants and a striped green button-down topped with a leather jacket and shiny black combat boots. His hair falls like brown silk over his ears, and a lock of it has slipped down to obscure part of one eye.

“Hey.” He greets me quietly as he returns my once-over.

“Hi,” I answer.

“Look, no candy or bouquet.” He holds his arms wide as if to prove his point.

I laugh lightly. “A very thoughtful gesture, and I thank you for it.”

“I hope you like Italian.” Will holds out his hand to me, and I place mine in it. His fingers are warm and soft and close around mine gently.

I let him lead me out of the cold. Inside, the environment is warm and cozy. Already, my face and fingertips are feeling less chilled, and it won’t be long before I can comfortably take off my sweater.

“Campbell,” Will tells the young hostess standing behind a black lacquered podium in a ruffled white top and long red skirt, and in minutes, we’re seated on opposite sides of a small booth, far enough away from other diners that their presence doesn’t feel intrusive.

I slide onto the red pleather seat against the wall, a habit born from years of casing places. I need the best vantage to see the most of my surroundings, and Will sits on the opposite side, as comfortable with his back to the room as I would be uncomfortable in the same position. As soon as we’re settled, the hostess takes our drink order and promises to return shortly. When we’re alone—relatively—Will watches me carefully, so I grab a menu and pretend to study it with interest in order to avoid his gaze. The menu is one page, double-sided, printed on cardstock with fancy lettering and scrollwork, and the fare is traditional, bare-bones Italian. I decide quickly on the spaghetti and meatballs but keep up my pretense of deliberating my choices until Will goes for his own menu. At some point while we’re scanning the page, the hostess drops off our glasses, and Will thanks her with a smile.

“So what looks good?” he asks me.

I peer at him over the top of my menu, but he’s looking down at his own. “I’m thinking about just getting the spaghetti and meatballs. Keep it easy.”

“My kind of girl,” he answers, then almost immediately looks up at me in surprise. “No. That’s not what I meant. I’m not calling you easy. I just meant…you know…the food…not complicated.” He ends on an exasperated sigh. Even in the dim lighting, his blush is a furious shade of red.

I take pity on him. “It’s okay. I know what you meant,” I tell him with a laugh. His posture relaxes just a bit, and he sets the menu down at the edge of the table.

Our waiter arrives just as I’m placing my menu on top of Will’s. “Hi there, welcome to Angelo’s. I’m Tommy. Have you dined with us before?”

I shake my head at the same time Will says, “All the time.”

I catch myself wondering just how many dates he’s brought here before I remind myself that it doesn’t matter because we’re just keeping it casual.

Tommy looks back and forth between us before asking, “Would you like me to go over the menu for you?”