Page 22 of Diamond In The Rough

He’s in the paper. In my friend’s every thought.

Sending wine to my table.

“Have you talked to him since the club?” Jaz leans closer and reads the label on the bottle. “Do you have something going on and you didn’t even tell me?”

“No.” I set my wineglass down, pushing aside the alcohol, since clearly, a sharp mind is a necessity tonight. “We only spoke that one time.” Frowning, I snatch up the expensive bottle and study the label for myself. “One time, for no more than two minutes. Now he’s here, giving us the stink-eye?”

“Maybe it’s a coincidence.”

“No.” I shove up from the table, my chair dragging loudly across the floor, then I turn and start across the restaurant.

Nerves batter in my stomach, on violent wings surely made of razor blades, the way they cut me up inside. But I was raised in a rough neighborhood that required me to stand up for myself. And some guy I don’t even know messing with my dinner and shooting daggers at my back simply for existing isn’t something I’ll tolerate.

“Madam?” Luigi catches sight of me from near the kitchen. His dark eyes flare wide when he clocks my trajectory and the iron grip I have on the bottle that maybe, just maybe, I hold the same way a baseballer holds his bat. “Madam!”

“You can’t come in here.” One of Malone’s soldiers steps in my way and gently presses his knuckles to my stomach. I’m still fifteen feet from Micah, but he burns me with his gaze. His stare, a fiery, commanding summons that contradicts his guard’s words. “This is a private party, miss. You’re not invited.”

“I am invited.” I lift my bat—well, bottle—and show it to him, my smile not even fractionally genuine. “Your boss sent a gift to my table. Now he can be a man about it and speak to me directly.”

Micah’s lips move, words emanating from them loud enough the guard hears. But there’s too much noise for me to make them out. There’s too much going on, and I’m simply not close enough.

But whatever Micah says, his man listens, because he drops his hand from my stomach and steps to the side to allow me passage.

“Exactly.” I flatten my lips and broaden my shoulders as I move forward.

I wore jeans tonight, the tight denim wrapped around my legs, all the way down to my ankles. But my top is loose against my skin, floating, and soft enough to not feel constricting. I prefer cut-offs and loose tanks, but have to wear sundresses to sell antiques to rich people. Somewhere in the middle, when I choose comfort and appearance, this is where I land.

Crossing the gap between where Micah’s guard stands and where Micah himself sits, I set the bottle down on the table with enough force to elicit a thud most others wouldn’t be brave enough to create in these circumstances.

“No thanks, Mr. Malone.” I step back and set my hands on my hips. “I don’t accept drinks from strangers.”

He looks down at the bottle, his eyes narrowing at the still-sealed lid. “It was a gift.”

“And now it’s been returned. I don’t accept offerings from men who look at me like I killed their dog. I don’t know what your problem is, Mr. Malone, but I’m quite certain you have me mixed up with someone else.”

“Do I?” He sits back, crossing one leg over the other, and considers me. “You’re young and beautiful. Your face is exceptionally difficult to mistake for anyone else’s, considering your mixed heritage. Your eyes are… uniquely angry. And your bravery contradicts the damsel act you put on outside CeCe’s last month.”

“My damsel act? What act?”

“The walking alone at night thing. The someone is catcalling me and I’m afraid shtick.” He picks up his wineglass and takes a slow, testing sip. “Surely you realize you’re not the first beautiful person who got in our way, hoping for an invitation into our world.”

“You got in my way!” I draw attention when I raise my voice, sparking whispers that have the mobster’s dark green eyes scanning the crowd outside of his private space. But I’m not done. “I was walking to a club to meet my friends for drinks after work. You got in my way, and now you think you can plop a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine down on my table, and buy my time and an opportunity to insult me?”

“Seven hundred, actually.”

I scoff so loud, the vibration in my throat physically hurts. “Whatever, dude. Keep your wine, and I’ll keep my distance. That ought to assuage your cynicism and sense of self-grandeur.”

I turn on my heels, locking focus with a stunned and yet wildly entertained Jaz. Beside her, having finally arrived, is Roscoe, whose deep brown glare is both concerned and…

Nope, just concerned.

I lift my hand in goodbye for the intimidating man behind me. “I’m going back to my dinner. Have a nice life. We never again have to be in the same?—”

“Ma’am.” The guard steps in my way again, pressing his palm to my stomach and nudging me back until I peek over my shoulder and find Micah’s lips moving.

He speaks, but I still can’t hear him. Because my ears are shot to shit, and the noise throughout the restaurant is just loud enough to dull specific voices.

“What?” I turn back and stalk closer until his moving lips transfer to actual sound loud enough to reach my ears. “What did you say?”

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