Page 7 of Bad Little Bride

The unmistakable tang of freshly cut pineapple wafts over me then and I step forward, peering into what I can see of the dining space. Several staff members appear from around the corner, trays in hand. They’re single file, one after another, and just as quickly as they stepped out, they retreat, now empty-handed.

The woman lets out a long, annoyed breath beside me, so I wait two extra seconds out of spite, and then step into the space. The moment I do, my eyes instantly snap to the left, and I hate how my feet falter at the sight, but to be fair, it’s the last thing I expected to find.

Enzo sits at the head of the table, a tablet in his hand and a coffee mug in the other. He cut his hair.

How or why I notice that, I don’t know. I only got the smallest of looks at him the day he brought me back, but that day it was a little longer on the sides, as was his facial hair.

Today, his dark hair is shaved short at the sides, the top slightly slicked back and a little to the left, like he got out of the shower, ran a hand through it and it just stayed that way. His facial hair is no more than a light dusting of stubble, an intentional five-o'clock shadow. My attention falls to the thin white tank top he wears underneath the open button-up, or more to the necklace tucked into it. It’s a thin gold chain withsomething hanging in the circular center, but I can’t make out what it is, I just spot the small indent between the swell of his pecs. It must be significant.

Men don’t tend to wear jewelry that isn’t, and certainly not jewelry they tuck close to their heart.

“Sit.”

My eyes fly to his face as the terse demand leaves him, but he’s still tapping and scrolling away on his tablet, not offering to look up from his work.

Over his shoulder, I notice a man in all black standing with his back pressed against the wall, a small folder hanging from his hands. He stands there like a creepy-ass scene in some horror flick, focusing hard on the wall opposite of his position…a completelyblankwall. Not even his eyes stray toward me.

No one ever looks my way here. Not during the three months earlier this year when I was here to “get to know” my future husband—who was away on business the entire time—and apparently, not now.

Slowly, I step to the right, moving for the seat at the farthest end of the table from where he sits, but a harsh screech of wood sliding against marble stops me. I look over as he tucks his leg back underneath the table, having kicked the chair beside him out and sending it crashing to the floor.

My heart pounds wildly, and I don’t know why, but I glance at the woman behind me for help.

Shockingly enough, she gives it in the form of a small nod, so I draw in a full breath, remember I’m a fucking Revenaw and was eating eggs with murderous men at our breakfast table since I was old enough to hold a fucking fork, and make my way across the room. Just as I begin to bend to pick up the toppled chair from the floor, Enzo shoots to his feet.

His brown eyes snap to mine, catching me in his snare and holding me captive for a long, tense moment.

They’re dark but not as dark as I had remembered them to be. There’s a hazel, honey-like hue within them, bleeding out and softening as it meets and is swallowed by the dark chocolate color, but any thoughts of him being soft or sweet is trickery of the best kind. He’s not.

The pits of hell smiled upon Enzo Fikile, giving him the gift of the gods with his long, black lashes and sharp jaw. He’s cut and carved into perfection and oh-so very tall.

A solid seven or more inches than me, and he uses it to his advantage, stepping close enough to force me to bare my neck in order to look up at him like he’s the king and I’m just a girl he’s gracing with his presence.

That’s exactly what he thinks.

The smallest crease forms at the edges of his eyes as he moves, silently demanding my gaze doesn’t abandon his as he bends, gripping the heavy, mahogany leg in his hand. He flips it upright, scooting it until the edge of the seat presses the outside of my knee.

I take the cue, turning slightly, and he pushes it in as I sit. My ass isn’t even firmly placed on the cushion before he’s seated again and looping his ankle around the leg of the chair to yank it closer to his. So close, there’s little arm room for me to reach for the glass of water he pours for me without my knuckles brushing along the sleeve of his shirt when he goes to grab a small pad of paper before him at the same time.

He flips it over, hiding the handwriting on the other side as he places it before me, leaving just enough space for the server to lower a plate.

I look up with a small smile, a thank-you on my tongue, but it dies when the server whips around and all but runs out of the room, three others entering as he exits.

A platter of fruit, one full of protein, and a third of nothing but carbs are lowered before us.

A steamy cappuccino is set before me, and I stare at it a moment, wondering if I should ask if I could have it prepared the way I like or if it will paint me as more of the spoiled brat he likely sees me as. Before I can decide, a small pouring cup is set beside me, a stainless-steel Whip Tech next.

I blink, my eyes moving to the server, but again, he’s already gone, having delivered exactly what I would have asked for.

I can feel the heat of Enzo’s gaze. He’s watching me, probably to see if I’ll complain, but I don’t want to look at him, so I take the whipped cream dispenser and cover the top of my espresso with it, deciding to only add a small drizzle of caramel.

The glass dish no sooner hits the table when Enzo picks it right back up, pouring the fresh, warm—homemade?—caramel over the top until it looks like it’s part of the whipped cream.

My gaze does snap up to meet his this time, and honestly, it’s so awkward and uncomfortable. Not to mention weird.

We’re technically, legally engaged, but we haven’t seen each other or spoken to one another in months, and even then, there were no conversations. We literally talked once outside of the day I approached him with my idea, if you don’t count the meetings with our lawyers to draft the contract, which I don’t. Last he heard, I changed my mind and pulled out of the deal. Then he showed up at the spa and dragged me back to his home, all to lock me in a new room for a week without a single word from him. Now here we are having breakfast together.

Like I said. Awkward.

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