Chapter 2 - THE DINNER I SHOULD HAVE REFUSED
I didn't call Dante Caruso that afternoon.
Or that evening.
Or the following morning.
I told myself it was because I was sensible.
The truth was less flattering.
I was terrified of hearing his voice.
Every time I unfolded the invitation, I remembered the way his guards had reached for their weapons when I made a stupid joke.
I remembered the expensive suit.
The scars.
The quiet authority.
And the way he'd looked at me as though I was the only person in a crowded diner who had surprised him.
At seven Friday evening, I was still wearing my yellow uniform.
Tommy had scheduled me for a double shift.
Again.
I stared at the clock.
Then at the card hidden inside my apron pocket.
I took out my phone.
Typed the number.
Deleted it.
Typed it again.
Finally, I sent a message.
I can't come. Working. Also, your coffee standards are unreasonable.
I expected silence.
Instead, my phone buzzed thirty seconds later.
Dante: The coffee standards are nonnegotiable. Dinner is not. Another evening?
I stared.
Then typed:
Clare: Are you always this formal?
Dante: Only when I'm trying not to frighten someone.
My heart did something embarrassing.
Clare: You're doing moderately well.
Dante: Progress.
I smiled despite myself.
Then another message arrived.
Dante: What time do you finish?
I hesitated.
Clare: Midnight.
Dante: Eat something before then.
I rolled my eyes.
Clare: Yes, Dad.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
Dante: I sincerely hope that is not how you intend to address me at dinner.
I nearly dropped my phone.
For the first time in months, I laughed so hard that Marcus came out of the kitchen to see what was wrong.
At eleven forty-five, Tommy called me into his office.
His expression was grim.
“Clare, we need to talk.”
My stomach sank.
Nothing good ever followed those words.
He held up a register report.
“Your drawer was short eighty dollars yesterday.”
I stared.
“No, it wasn't.”
“That's what the report says.”
“I counted it with you.”
He shrugged.
“Then you made a mistake.”
I looked at him.
“Tommy, I didn't.”
His face hardened.
“I'm not arguing.”
I swallowed.
“What are you saying?”
“That it'll come out of your paycheck.”
I stared.
“You can't just do that.”
He leaned back.
“Then prove you didn't lose it.”
My hands curled into fists.
I needed the job.
I needed the money.
And Tommy knew it.
I walked out of his office shaking.
At midnight, I stepped into the rain.
A black car was parked across the street.
I froze.
Then the rear window lowered.
Dante Caruso looked out.
“Murphy.”
I stared.
“What are you doing here?”
He glanced at the diner.
“Waiting.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
I folded my arms.
“I said I couldn't come to dinner.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
He studied my face.
“Because your message sounded tired.”
I almost laughed.
“That's because I am tired.”
He nodded.
“Have you eaten?”
I looked away.
“Clare.”
Something about the way he said my name made my eyes burn.
I shook my head.
“No.”
He opened the car door.
“Then allow me to buy you a sandwich.”
I stared at him.
“A sandwich?”
“Yes.”
“Not some fancy restaurant?”
“No.”
“Not a private dining room with armed guards?”
His mouth curved.
“Only if you insist.”
May you like
I laughed.
And against every sensible instinct I possessed, I climbed into the car.
