Page 7 of His Passerotta

What’s that called? A Pahkan?

No, that’s Russian.

Anthony doesn’t answer me, nor does he answer his phone. It stops ringing a few moments later, only to start back up again.

This time, he reaches over to hit ignore.

My heart slows, letting my senses take hold, and the second they do, I’m overwhelmed.

I can smell him. His car has that fresh smell that makes you think he just drove it off a lot, but his cologne is what my brain focuses on. Pine, I think. I don’t go around sniffing trees, but it’s definitely a woody smell. Along with something else, something carnal, something Anthony.

Is this real? Am I seriously in Anthony Gruco’s car?

My core comes to life, and I press my thighs together as if that’ll stop it. It doesn’t.

I tell myself to keep my sights on the dash, the road, anywhere but Anthony, but my eyes betray me and wander over to him.

He’s so … intense. And yet, there’s a gentleness to him. His chiseled jaw is the first thing I see when I look at him, but those hazel eyes soften his hard features. So does his clean-shaven face and the way he lets his honey brown hair hang over his forehead instead of slicking it back.

He’s handsome, and at the same time kind of beautiful.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the road.

Oops. I guess he wasn’t lost in thought.

I clear my throat and glance around as if I was studying his car all along and not him. A pathetic attempt to save face.

Should I answer him?

No. What the hell would I even say? ‘Cause I think you’re cute?

A few hard plastic folders tucked between my seat and the console catch my attention, and I peek at the contents of one. A resume.

With a sly shuffle of my fingers, I can see the other two are resumes as well.

“Are you hiring or applying?” I ask.

Hiring. Duh.

Is he aware that I know who he is?

He looks at the folders before swiping them up and tossing them on the back seat.

It seems like a clear message that I’m invading his privacy, so I sit back with no expectation of a reply. So, of course, I’m surprised when I get one.

“Hiring.”

I turn my head toward him, my back straightening with interest.

“I’m opening a restaurant soon and am looking for a chef.”

“Oh,” I say in a high-pitched voice. “That’s cool.”

Maybe consider hiring a new one for La Divina while you’re at it. Not because of the chef’s abilities. Fifty dollars for beef tips seems a bit much, but his cooking smells good. He’s just also an arrogant prick. I think. It’s mostly gossip Rainey felt compelled to tell me.

“Have you found a bartender yet?” I ask, my hope rising prematurely. I’m the girl fucking up his day. At some point, I’ve got to stop asking for favors.

But would it be a favor? I’m damn good at my job. Hiring me would be a favor to him.

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