Page 4 of His Passerotta

Bailey

So. Good.

Every taste bud I have lights up at the sugary, sloshy goodness in my mouth.

Someone clears their throat, and I pull back the cup filled with green apple deliciousness to blink at the glaring stranger next to me. The way her maroon-painted lips purse with disgust makes it seem like I was drinking straight from the slushy machine. Damn, lady.

“Are you going to pay for that?” she asks. I check for a name tag or uniform or something to show that she works here but find a pearl necklace and leopard print blouse instead.

Not a Quick Trip employee. Just a crime catching detective here to make a citizen's arrest.

I swallow slushy, along with the snotty reply on my tongue, and nod instead. I’ve learned to avoid confrontation. Especially with people who scream, ‘I’d like to file a report.’

“Yeah, sorry.”

I fill the cup up, stopping when it’s three-quarters of the way full in case it somehow matters to the good Samaritan.

I sip slushy through a straw while heading to the counter, plucking a Twix bar and a bag of chips from racks as I go. There are two people in front of me, and I stand behind them, sipping liquid ecstasy and damn near forgetting I’m ruining some poor bride’s hour when the bell chimes.

My head turns that way, and the instant hazel eyes lock onto mine, my sugar high flattens. They belong to a man I recognize immediately.

I know this guy…

Sort of.

I know who he is, and I’ve spoken to him about ten times. All of them being a quick “here you go” after handing him his chosen drink.

He’s Anthony Gruco. Somewhat frequent customer of the dive bar I was fired from a month ago and owner of La Divina. And the man who occupies my shower thoughts.

Okay, so maybe there was more than one reason I applied for the waitressing gig at that particular restaurant.

I face forward as my cheeks heat and step closer to the guy wearing a windbreaker in front of me.

Goosebumps spread over my shoulders when Anthony stops behind me, his presence suffocating. This is the same charged discomfort I’ve felt every other time I’ve laid eyes on the man, which is a big reason I’ve said few words to him.

He’s… Well, he’s intimidating. For one thing, he’s the owner of dozens of establishments throughout Las Vegas, one of which is the hotel La Divina is situated in. For another, I think he might be part of the Italian mob. At the very least, he’s a member of a very shady family, and with the one-on-one hushed conversations I’ve seen him have at what one could call an ‘under the radar’ establishment, I’m leaning toward mob.

And this is proof of the horrible taste I have in men because despite the obvious reasons to stay away, I’ve had a teeny-weeny crush on him since the first time his silky voice ordered a mint julep (not a common order).

“Goddamn it,” he mutters under his breath.

I peek at him over my shoulder to see his powerful jaw hardened, lips thinned as his intense stare penetrates the glass door. His right hand pats the outer side of his thigh in what looks like an anxious tic.

I only mean to glimpse him, but when his eyes find me, I realize I’m staring. I whip my head around and step up when the line moves.

Every second that ticks by reminds me of how late I am, and I glance around me for a clock but don’t see one.

Again, I peek over my shoulder, my heart skipping when Anthony pins me with an annoyed glare.

“Do you need something?” he snaps.

My body tenses at his voice, like I somehow wasn’t expecting it. Like he was just going to stand there while I rudely gaped at him.

“Umm, yeah.” I clear my throat and try to keep my voice even. “Do you know what time it is?”

His face relaxes a hair as he glances down at his watch. “Three-thirty… Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short.”

I mean to give him an ‘oh, it’s fine’ smile, but I can tell just by the way my face feels that it’s awkward. A squeak comes from my mouth, and I lift a shoulder.

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