Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
He leans in for a cheek kiss, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. It’s crisp and calming. If it had a color, it would be sea blue. Every nerve ending fires at being close to him again. Remembering the way his hands felt holding me in place. The way he took charge of me.
“Well, I’m ready.” I shrug.
“Don’t sound like I’m taking you to a torture chamber.” He cocks his head, eyes darkening. “Unless you like that?”
Oh damn.
Innuendos already. My breasts grow heavy, nipples chafe inside my bra.
He extends his arm, ever the gentleman. “After you.” He escorts me to his sapphire blue BMW and opens the door, helping me in before shutting it after me.
His car is clean and smells like cinnamon gum. I breathe it in like a drug.
“So.” He settles into the driver’s seat and turns on the car. “I got the feeling you weren’t happy to see me yesterday.”
My stomach flips at his directness. I snap my gaze to his. “No, I...”
“Come on, Soph. You didn’t like me showing up. You were nervous. What’s that about?”
I shake my head. “Nothing…”
“Is your beef with me or the Family?”
I uncross my knees and shift my hips around in the seat. “No, that’s not it...I don’t have a beef.” I fumble.
“Come on, bella. Level with me.”
I am not at all used to guys being so direct. Holding me so accountable.
I sneak a glance at his profile, and he glances away from the road to meet my gaze. I drop my eyes to my hands, tangling in my lap. “It’s just...I haven’t really seen anyone from the family much since my dad died.”
That’s not much of an answer, I know.
He waits for me to go on.
“I don’t have a beef.” I let out an exhale, releasing a chunk of resentment that’s probably been there for years. I didn’t even know it was there, weighing me down all this time.
“Is it with me?” His voice is gentle.
“No.” I lift my eyes to his face again. More brittle places in me, but the guarding and the protective armor start to dissolve.
How is this man so damn disarming?
“You’re, um, you’re just not my usual type, that’s all.”
Joey’s a man’s man, no question. Not my type at all. I loved my dad, but I didn’t love the life he gave me. The loss and pain. I’ve gone for softer men—artsy men, social justice sort of men, the kind who would stay home with the kids if I wanted to work. But I have to admit there’s a major appeal to an alpha male. Knowing he’d slay all my dragons if I asked. Hell, he already offed the car loan dragon, hadn’t he? And while he underscores everything I hate about the mafia—the violence at its core that caused the death of my father—he also reminds me of what I loved so much about my dad, too.
He smirks. He has a dimple in his cheek in addition to the one on his chin. “What’s your usual type?”
I can’t help but smile in return. “Not you.”
“Well, if I had a type, it would be you,” he says.
I snort. I’m sure he says that to all the women. “I heard you just broke off an engagement with someone.”
“Oh yeah?” He sounds surprised. “Where’d you hear that?”
“My Aunt Marie—you know, Tony’s wife? I called her after you came by yesterday.”
Is it just me, or does Joey look far too satisfied to find out I’ve been asking about him? Yes, there’s a definite note of triumph to his expression.
He shrugs. “Yeah, I just realized she wasn’t the right girl for me. Too empty.”
I study his profile with curiosity. I want to know more.
So Joey LaTorre is looking for depth? Why does that surprise me?
And why do I hope he finds it with me? I don’t. I definitely don’t.
Joey takes me to Epic, an upscale restaurant I can’t afford with majestic views of the ocean. The maître d’ welcomes him by name and seats us in a private booth by a window. Real candles burn in the glass holders on the table. The city lights glitter on the water, making it look magical. If Joey was going for romantic, he definitely hit the mark.
This guy has charm in spades, which makes him harder and harder to resist.
The waiter comes by our table to take our drink order. Joey looks across the wine menu at me. “Do you like wine?”
“Yes.”
“Red or white?”
“Red, please.”
He looks up at the waiter. “We’ll have a bottle of the Dal Forno Romano Monte Lodoletta Amarone della Valpolicella.” The Italian rolls off his tongue like he’s a native speaker. He probably is. It makes me wish I picked up more Italian from my grandparents while they were alive. I check the menu and notice he just ordered a four hundred-dollar bottle of wine.