Page 8 of The Fox

The lights may be low, but I can see the way the shadows play with the growth along his defined jaw and how the glow from tabletop candles bounces off the hair falling across his shoulders. I want to run my fingers through the strands. The fit of his suit is utter perfection, like it was crafted for him alone. The set is a shade of navy so dark it could be black, the jacket open to reveal a crisp cream shirt with one button undone to offer the slightest glimpse of his chest. His sleeves sit at just the right spot on his wrists. I reach the table and he stands, the hint of a smile ghosting his face as I feel his eyes rake down my body before coming back to meet mine.

“Gods, Amelia. I’m so glad you came.” My chest tightens at the way my name sounds coming from him. The gravel in his voice, a soft confidence, makes my heart skip a beat.

“Hi. Thanks for getting the best spot in the place,” I respond quietly, feeling the heat bloom on my cheeks. Rhodes moves slightly behind me and I shrug my leather jacket off. He grips it, gently setting it on the back of my chair before pulling my chair out for me. I sit, feeling his hands hover above my shoulders before he rounds back to his own seat.

Rhodes’ suit jacket comes off as he sits, the green in his eyes sparkling with mischief. A dimple on the left side of his face makes an appearance as a slow smile creeps on his lips.

Of course he has a dimple.

A waiter, one I’ve never seen here, takes our drink orders and I peruse the menu. I already know what I’m ordering, but I also don’t really want to fill the air with awkward stares or say something I shouldn’t. My gaze lifts, catching him staring back at me, his menu still on the table.

“Can I help you?”

“What are you going to get?” he asks, those green orbs never leaving mine. I decide to test the waters…just a little bit.

“A salad. Probably the one with chicken, oil, and vinegar on the side. Hold the bread basket.”

“Really?”

I hum, keeping my face low. I scan the rest of the menu, despite knowing I’ll actually order something different.

“Bullshit.” I jerk my eyes to his face, pausing as his lips morph into a knowing smirk. “I don’t think you’re a salad kind of woman. No, I definitely don’t think you settle. Not in a place like this.”

I place the menu back on the table, inhaling deeply and setting my hands on top of the menu. The urge to pick a cuticle consumes me.

“What should I order then?”

He leans back, crossing his arms across his chest, his biceps flexing. His head tilts and I suddenly feel the room shrink, trapping us in a vacuum where we are the only ones existing.

“You’d order the bread basket, demanding the waiter to not let it go empty. You wouldn’t go for something light because dinners out are for indulging. You’d choose the pasta, of course,” he pauses, eyes narrowing as he holds me with a stare. “The arrabbiata sauce, no cheese because it detracts from the simplicity of the dish. You’ll pick either the tiramisu or the cannoli for dessert, but it’ll depend on how the night goes and if you order more than a single glass of red at dinner. If you switch to whiskey, it’ll be the tiramisu.”

“You barely know me,” I whisper, on edge at how accurate he just was. As someone who has a pulse on all the movement within her territory, a man knowing methiswell makes me tick.

“I was a Special Operations sniper before retiring three years ago. Reading people was my job. Despite you having your walls up, there are still small tells I notice. You smiled when you walked in the door—an actual smile, which means this place is familiar to you.” Rhodes pauses, watching my reaction.

Capiolla’s has been a fixture in my life, even when nothing else was constant. The intimate restaurant is connected to my family in ways that cannot be unraveled. I sat at these tables as a girl, my feet unable to touch the floor, as my father dealt with business. There are memories of being reminded by powerful men that as a lady, I should act accordingly—no pasta or bread basket for my mother and me. Mafia women are held to higher standards, those within the Families even more so. Sometimes though, if I didn’t disappoint him, my father would allow me to order the tiramisu. The explosion of flavors was a reward, a moment of joy in the darkness.

Rhodes’ voice cuts through the memory. “The menu was in your hands but you kept going back to one section. Plus, you don’t seem to be the type to deny yourself good food.” He shifts, moving his forearms to the table.

“I would stop while you're ahead, Rhodes. Surely you aren’t saying what I think I just heard,” I say, pinning him with a glare.

“You walked in and the world stopped for me. This dress is deadly, Amelia. You look so damn good, baby. You take what you want and that is attractive as fuck. I don’t want you to shrink yourself around me.” His voice drops, low and soothing. “You want the pasta, you order the pasta. If you want dessert too? Take it. If you want to leave here and go someplace else? Let’s go.”

Baby.He’d called me baby. I’m not sure if he meant for that to slip. I couldn’t let him know how it affected me, the way that one word made the wall around my heart crack. A term of endearment never used when describing me, those four letters are enough to make me falter. I’ve always been ‘Amelia’ to the men around me. Men bred by power don’t waste breath with pet names. I steady my breathing and pray he’s not looking at me as my gaze drops to my hands. I can’t bring myself to raise my head because I know the second I do, my body will betray me.

“Watching you strut toward this table, knowing that every eye was on you? I am the luckiest man in the room. I couldn’t believe you agreed to meet me,” he continues. “So get the pasta, Amelia.

The waiter reappears and we order our meals. Rhodes chooses the osso bucco and I have the pasta. When I ask for the bread basket, I glance at Rhodes, finding that his gaze isn’t anywhere other than on me. I am the center of his attention.

Time passes easily and as our plates are placed in front of us, the smell of fresh pasta wafts up to my nose. There is something magical about good pasta smothered in a simple sauce. I gather a few of the penne on my fork before taking a bite. Flavor erupts on my tongue and I am so glad I didn’t order a salad.Gods, this sauce is sinful.I grab a slice of the garlic bread, dipping the crust in the spicy red sauce. I am so engrossed in my dinner, I don’t realize Rhodes is staring at me.

Fuck.I slowly set the piece of bread down on my plate, reaching for the napkin I’d sat in my lap. I gently dab at my mouth before plastering a smile on my face and meeting his gaze. “Sorry, I should have been talking with you, not stuffing my face with pasta. I’m sorry.”

Rhodes chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m not sorry,” he says in a low whisper. “If that is the joy pasta brings you,” Rhodes nods at my fork. “Go on, baby. You enjoy your dinner and I’ll enjoy watching you.”

“Where is your favorite place in the world?” I ask, reaching toward the bread basket for another piece.

He rubs his palm against his mouth, the other hand crossing to grab his elbow, as he thinks. I’ve learned the big things—his favorite color (grey), the way he drinks his coffee (black), and his fears (spiders and clowns). For some reason though, I want this answer more than any other.

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