Page 100 of Taming Tesla

Davey snorts. “It shouldn’t have happened at all.”

“I was invited to tag along with some friends, last minute,” I say, gesturing around the table. “I didn’t want to—”

“My table seats four and for you, it’s always open—even if I have to toss some rich despot out on his ass,” He answers back, somehow managing to make the invitation sound like a threat. “Next time, you call me, huh?”

“As long as you promise no more food,” I say, earning a round of laughter from Chase and Miranda while Cari remains quiet. Standing, I place a hand between Cari’s shoulder blades. She flinches slightly, like having my hands on her is making her uncomfortable. I swallow the lump in my throat and smile. “Davey, this is Cari.”

Davey cuts me a sharp look, his mouth twisted in surprise. “This is…” he turns to look at her, his mouth stretched into a wide smile as he reaches for her hand. “I’ve often wondered what kind of woman could prompt a man to say no to my Silver and spend a million dollars on paintings—consider me enlightened, Bellissima.” Davey presses his lips to the back of Cari’s hand while the bottom drops out of my stomach.

While Davey moves on to introduce himself to Miranda and Chase, Cari stares at me, as white as a sheet. A few moments later, Davey is hustling off to the kitchen, spouting something about dessert. As soon as he’s gone, Cari looks at me. “What is he talking about?”

Sighing, I sit down, placing my napkin in my lap. “Silver asked me out. I said no,” I say, even though I know that’s not what she’s asking about. I look across the table at Chase and Miranda for help. Neither one of them will look at me. I’m on my own.

“I don’t care about her,” Cari says loudly, shaking her head. “I care about the million dollars you spent on paintings.” She divides a look between her mentor and her boss. “Is this the news you wanted to give me?” The birthmark below her collarbone is as dark as her dress, her voice rising in volume with each word. “The rich guy I’m fucking bought all my paintings to save me from embarrassing myself by thinking I can actually make it as an artist?” she says it loudly. So loud diners at surrounding tables stop eating and drinking to stare at her until the entire dining area is silent and still.

“Cari—”

She stands, throwing in her napkin on the table in front of her. “I want to go home.”

I sigh, standing slowly. “Cari—will you let me explain?”

“I don’t want an explanation,” she says, biting each word in half. “I want you to take me home, Patrick. Right now.”

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