Page 48 of Diamond In The Rough

I look across the restaurant, to the door we came through—empty—then to another, where the server disappeared into—also empty.

“Tiia?”

“Yes.” Licking my dry lips, I bring my focus back to the man whose very existence makes my stomach knot with nerves. “Yes, he was who I ate with last night.”

“A date?”

“Someone I enjoy spending time with. What kept you this morning?”

I stun him with my question. Silence him momentarily, as he snaps his mouth shut and looks down into his lap.

“I mean, you seem to think it’s okay to ask me about my work,” I blaze on. “Surely, those lines of communication are open and equal for us both.”

He scoffs, soft and playful, as he sits back and sets his arm over the top cushion. Not quite draped on my shoulder, but, jesus, not far from it either. “I’d much rather talk about you. That guy Roscoe… Is it a casual, sometimes thing, or are you committed?”

“Does it matter to you?” Shut up, shut up, shut up! “And even if it does, what makes you think you’re entitled to information about my private life?”

“I’m an inquisitive man by nature. And you’re a beautiful woman. I’m curious.”

“Because you consider me beautiful.” I snatch the menu from the table, despite Micah already having decided what I’ll eat. “So aesthetics are all that count? Would you be nearly as curious if I was ugly?”

“Perhaps.” He narrows his eyes, but this time, I don’t feel suspicion in his gaze. Rather, wonder. Interest. “I’ve never pigeonholed myself, as far as the women who make me look twice. Redhead. Blonde. Brunette.” He studies the hair settled on top of my shoulder and pinches the very ends between his fingers. “Blue eyes. Brown.” He stops and grins. “Silver. I can’t say I’ve ever settled on a type before, so whether you were heavier, shorter, or had a different face, I think your attitude and mind might still catch my attention.”

“How many types have you had in your bed?”

Dammit, Tiia! Shut. Up.

He smirks, lifting his shoulder in what could only be considered a shrug. “Dunno. You and Roscoe?”

“Committed to what we have.” I lift my chin in defiance. “But the details are for him and me only. We owe no one else an explanation.”

“What does ippo mean?” He releases my hair and tilts his head to the side. “I heard him shout it when you called him last night.”

“Ipo?” I hate that my nerves tremble. Especially because I’m not entirely confident they’re ‘he’s gonna kill me’ nerves; it’s possible they’re ‘he’s staring a lot and I’m not sure how I feel about it’ nerves. “It means ‘sweetheart,’ mostly. He’s called me ipo since forever.”

Micah’s eyes widen, from tightened contemplation to something else entirely. “You’ve known him a long time, then?”

“Most of my life.”

I glance up when the server bustles through the door again, my stomach clawing at my throat as hunger overrides my better senses, and the scent of mushrooms and garlic slam me the way a prizefighter’s fist might hit his opponent.

Dropping my hands, I press my palm to my belly as it audibly grumbles. Because maybe I skipped breakfast today, too anxious about the meeting promised by a different prizefighter.

Metaphorically, of course.

“You’re starving.” The instant the server sets my heaped bowl on the table, Micah slides it in front of me and places a fork on the side. “Eat. Don’t burn yourself.” He looks up. “Our wine?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll bring it right away.” The server pivots and darts out of the room, the door swinging in his wake with a schwoop, schwoop, schwoop.

“Will you tell me what happened to your hand yet?” I know I risk starvation. Perhaps even death. So I pick up the fork and stab a gnocchi before the plate is taken away in punishment. Then I look to the man on my left, but he hardens his expression and places his hand in his lap, as though embarrassed.

“You ask about my life,” I press. “My relationships. You hound me at my workplace, and call me all sorts of slanderous things, unprovoked.” I toss the piping hot potato pasta into my mouth and hss-hss-hss around the heat. “Seems you’ve arrived at a point of acceptance, as far as who I say I am. Don’t I deserve answers now?”

“Do you think you deserve answers?” He reaches across and takes a gnocchi with his fingers, plopping the morsel on his tongue and sucking the creamy white sauce from his fingertips.

Thick lips, broad fingers… and a tongue that spews venomous words.

And yet, just as I study the artifacts we sell at Jakeline’s shop, I study the man who practically crushes me against the wall.

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