Page 19 of Call Me Sir

“I’m Italian.”

It’s no surprise because of his olive skin and dark features.

I’m inclined to reach across and touch his chiseled jaw that has a five o clock shadow.

“I want another drink,” I say more so to the bartender who nods at me.

Sal leans in. “How about I take you to get some take out instead?”

“And then what?”

“If you’re not throwing up, we’ll see.”

The bartender leans in front of us. “More of the same?”

I look at his tattooed arms. They’re sexy as hell. If I were desperate I’d see if he was interested in hooking up. Instead, I’m overwhelmed by desire to see where this night could go with my boss.

“Actually we’ll close our tabs.”

“Tab,” Sal corrects, sliding a sleek black card across the wood. “And a water please.”

“Sounds good.”

The water is given to me immediately.

“Thanks, Torey.” I don’t know why that name tumbles from my lips, but my boss looks shaken when he turns to me.

I can’t tell if it’s good or bad, but he stands and says, “I’ll get the car. Come out in five minutes. Sign for me.”

He makes a show to leave and says bye to the few employees still left at the bar. A few look my way but I pull out my phone and pretend to text someone, chugging my water as quickly as I can. I need this liquid to clear my head.

Comparisons aren’t fair. At the same time, an entire weekend with Danny would require all the mental fog I could get. Whereas with my boss, I want to imprint every detail to memory.

I do as he says and I’m all flustered when I sign for him and slip the card in my pocket.

Right out front is the sleek, charcoal gray Honda Civic. It’s not the car I pictured him wanting, but he looks sexy as hell driving it.

Hustling to the passenger seat, I hop in and wait for him to get going.

“Seat belt.”

I obey.

“There’s heated seats if you’re chilly.”

It’s a spring night in California so it’s pretty nice but there’s a chill to the air. Thankfully the car is warmed up and I burrow into the seat once I’ve set it to the middle temperature available.

In the dark I see him reach for the sound system but instead of music playing, the phone starts ringing.

When the other line answers, it’s in Spanish and the two men go back and forth speaking fluently.

The call ends and I know I’m staring at him with my mouth gaping open like a trout.

“Dinner order.”

“I thought you said you’re Italian?”

“I am. My Spanish is more fluent.”

---