Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
He meets my eyes, his blue ones bright, twinkling with satisfaction. He says nothing about it, though, turning away to put the car in reverse.
"Where do you want to go?" he asks, easing into traffic.
"Anywhere," I say. "Wherever you go."
"You sound uncertain."
"I guess I do."
My response makes him laugh.
"I just have no preference," I explain. "I was going to eat Ramen noodles tonight, so anything is an upgrade from there."
"Why would you eat that?"
"Because that's all I had in the room," I say. "And besides, they're not so bad. They cost like, twenty cents. You can literally survive off them for a dollar a day."
He cuts his eyes at me, looking not nearly as impressed by that as I am.
"Have you tried them?" I ask curiously.
"No," he says. "Can't say I've ever had the pleasure."
"I'll have to make you some."
He raises his eyebrows, regarding me peculiarly. "I'll hold you to that, but not tonight. I'm taking you out instead. You can treat me another time to your gourmet noodles."
I'm so embarrassed I can feel my face heating. What's wrong with me, babbling to this man about freaking Ramen noodles? I want to slink away, disappear into the cool leather seat and never again resurface. "Just ignore me. I'm an idiot."
"No, you're not. You're just nervous."
"That obvious?"
"I'm just good at reading people. It kind of comes with the territory."
"What territory?"
"Work."
"And what is it you do for work?"
"A little of this, a little of that," he responds. "I'm a freelancer."
I stare at him. That didn't answer my question at all.
He cuts his eyes at me again, and my confusion must be easy to see… or maybe he just is that good at reading people… because he chooses to elaborate for me.
"Let's say a company needs something done… like, say, they're downsizing and need to fire people. Some of them choose to bring in someone else to do it, so they don't have to do the dirty work themselves. They like to keep their hands clean. So they hire an independent contractor, someone with expertise, to handle it for them."
"And what's your expertise?"
"Dealing with people," he says. "Finding things."
As soon as he says it, it takes me back to Santino's classroom and the words I heard that afternoon. 'I know what you're here for.'
"What were you looking for from my philosophy professor?"
A legitimate look of surprise crosses across his face that he wipes away just as quickly. He doesn't answer, shaking his head after a moment as his focus remains on the road. "I can't talk about my work."
Fair enough.
He takes me to a restaurant near Central Park, the kind where you have to make reservations weeks in advance. I've never been—I don't think even Melody has been, the atmosphere too rich for even her upscale tastes—but I've heard of the place. Naz valet parks the car and I get out, glancing around nervously, feeling severely underdressed even in a dress.
I start to point out to Naz that we'll never get a table here when he leads me inside, past couples waiting. The hostess looks up. "Do you have a reservation, sir?"
"No."
"We're fully booked for the night," she says, flipping the page in her reservation book as if double-checking. "Rest of the week, too."
"Do me a favor," he says. "Run and tell the chef that Vitale sends his regards."
The hostess looks like she wants to say no, but it's hard to argue with someone who sounds so confident. She reluctantly excuses herself, disappearing into the kitchen. Less than a minute passes before she returns, grabbing two menus and flashing a forced smile at Naz. "I was mistaken. We have a table for you."
"I figured," Naz says, pressing his hand to my back and motioning for me to follow the hostess. I oblige, not wanting to make any more of a scene than he just caused, everyone waiting already regarding us like we'd come with bombs strapped to our chests.
I slip into the chair the hostess pulls out while Naz sits down across from me.
I gape at him when she walks away. "How did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Get a table so quick?"
"I called ahead."
"So?"
"So I know the chef," he replies. "Called in a favor."
I'm quiet for a moment as the waiter appears, asking what we want to drink. I mutter "water" under my breath as Naz interjects. "Bring us a bottle of your best champagne."
The waiter looks between the two of us, and I'm just waiting for him to ask me for my ID, but he doesn't. Instead, he scurries away, walking off to fulfill Naz's request. It's fascinating, watching people react to him, while at the same time it's alarming. Is there anything this man can't get his way with?
"How'd you do it?" I ask. "Really."
"I just told you."
"How'd you call ahead? I didn't see you."
"I did it before I picked you up."
I shake my head. "But you didn't know where I'd want to go."
"Didn't I?" He raises his eyebrows questioningly. "I told you, Karissa. I read people. You have a tendency to just go with the flow and see where the wind blows, so I picked somewhere decent for you to land."
I'm flabbergasted as he picks up his menu and casually relaxes in his chair, his attention on it. I barely know anything about this man, and yet he seems to know me in ways no one ever has before, predicting what I'll do before I even do it.
The waiter returns with a bottle of champagne and tries to fill our glasses, but Naz takes it from him, insisting he do the pouring. I pick up my menu then, glancing at it, my stomach clenching as I scan the list of items.
I don't know what half this shit is.
I'm still staring at it when the waiter returns a second time, ready to take our order. Naz gazes at me from across the table, his lips twitching with amusement. He takes the menu straight from my hand and turns it over to the waiter along with his. "We'll just have the tasting menu."