Page 47 of Diamond In The Rough

“Um… sure.”

He leads us into traffic, strolling between crawling cars like he’s unafraid of being flattened. Unafraid of me being flattened. Once we’re across and on the sidewalk, he strides through the front door of the restaurant, into blissful air-conditioning, and merely waits.

One Mississippi, servers look our way.

Two Mississippi, the whispers begin.

Three Mississippi, finally, someone appears in front of us with a grin that says he knows exactly who has walked into his establishment today.

“Mr. Malone.” He gives a short, sharp bow, then looks to me. “Madam. This way, please.”

He twirls on his heels and bypasses the regular seating area, where diners look up from their pizza and pasta to stare. We follow him through a doorway and into an obviously more exclusive seating area, where no one else occupies.

The server pulls a chair out from a table for two and makes a show of waiting for me to step forward.

But instead of releasing me, Micah nods to the back corner. “Over there.”

Our host follows his gaze to a booth nestled in the shadowed corner. Finally, he shoves the chair back in, and darts across like it was his destination all along. “Of course, sir. Can I start you with a glass of wine?” He doesn’t mention Micah’s gripping hand. The brute strength he displays as he leads me into the booth and sits too close to me, so I’m trapped between his body and a solid wall. “Water? Soda, perhaps?”

Immediately, I respond, “Wat?—”

“White wine,” Micah interrupts. “Semillon Sauvignon. And we’ll order our food now, too. We’re in a rush.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I can’t drink!” I fix my dress, covering my thighs and dragging the fabric beneath my butt, then push my empty wine glass aside, shaking my head when the server’s cheeks pale.

How dare I defy his master?

“It’s the middle of a workday,” I press. “I’m not drinking.”

“One glass.” Micah peers to the server. “Gnocchi. With mushrooms. And a supreme pizza. My usual.”

“Your usual?” I turn on the seat, my knee almost touching his thigh, as he sets the chest’s files on the table and dismisses the server. “You have a usual?”

“Seems that way.” He opens the folder and peruses the contents. “I meant to come see you earlier, by the way, but I got caught up with something else.”

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t. Ask. “Working?”

His lips curl, pushing his cheeks up so I catch the movement in profile. “Something like that. Are you dating Roscoe?”

I jolt in my seat, my entire frame spasming in protest. “What?”

“Roscoe, the guy whose chest you cried on after I said mean things to you. Is he who you had a date with last night?”

“Um…” I swallow, the lump in my throat so large and painful, it almost steals my breath on the way down. “I don’t…”

“It’s a simple question.” He closes the file and sets his hands on top; both of them. Not just the good one, but the hand someone clearly abused earlier this year. “Requires a simple answer. Is Roscoe your boyfriend?”

“No…?”

Why, why do I speak my words as though they’re a question?

“Your lover?”

“No.”

“Was he who you ate with last night after I left the store?”

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