Page 63 of Shatter Me

"Dmitri! Finally, you bring a beautiful lady to try my food." She beams at me. "I'm Rosa. This one's been coming here for years, always alone with his papers."

I raise an eyebrow at Dmitri. "Years?"

"Best pasta in Boston." He actually looks a bit sheepish.

Rosa leads us to a corner table partially hidden by a wooden partition covered in ivy. The chair creaks as I sit, but it's oddly comfortable. A single candle flickers between us, casting dancing shadows across Dmitri's face.

"No menu," he says. "Rosa cooks what she feels like each day. Trust me?"

I lean back, taking in this hidden side of him. The ruthless businessman who terrorizes board rooms and runs an empire comes here to eat simple Italian food in a tiny family restaurant.

"I like this place," I say softly. "It feels real."

Something flickers in his eyes too quickly to detect before Rosa returns with a bottle of wine and warm focaccia that makes my mouth water.

"You eat, you enjoy," she declares, patting Dmitri's shoulder like he's her grandson. "I make something special for you both tonight."

The wine warms my chest as I watch Dmitri break off a piece of focaccia, his precise movements softened in this intimate setting. It's just him, relaxed and almost boyish.

"So this is where the great Dmitri Ivanov hides from the world?" I can't resist teasing him.

"Not hiding." He takes a sip of wine. "Sometimes I need somewhere that doesn't expect anything from me."

"Except to eat Rosa's cooking."

"Exactly." His eyes crinkle at the corners when he really smiles. It transforms his whole face, making him look younger.

The candlelight catches on his hands as he gestures, telling me about discovering this place years ago. I find myself distracted by those elegant fingers, remembering how they felt on my skin. Heat pools low in my belly.

"You're not listening anymore," he says, voice dropping lower.

"I am." I cross my legs under the table, my foot accidentally brushing his ankle. "You were saying something about the wine cellar..."

His eyes darken. "No, I was talking about Rosa's tiramisu. But now I'm thinking about that sound you made the other night when I kissed your neck."

I take a steadying breath. "Dmitri..."

"The way you arched against me." His thumb traces the rim of his wine glass. "How responsive you were to my touch."

"We're in public," I whisper, but I can't look away from his mouth.

"In a very private corner." His foot hooks around my ankle. "With these lovely curtains..."

Rosa's voice rings out from the kitchen, making us both jump. I have to stifle a laugh at how quickly we separate like teenagers caught making out.

"Saved by the pasta," I say, fanning my flushed face with my napkin.

"Temporarily." His predatory smile fills me with a cold dread. "We have all night,kulkolka."

The pasta arrives steaming, perfectly al dente, and glistening with olive oil. My mouth waters at the aroma of fresh basil and garlic. I twirl the linguine around my fork, hyper-aware of Dmitri's eyes following my every movement.

"This is incredible," I say after the first bite melts on my tongue.

"I told you to trust me." His voice has a rough edge that gives me goosebumps.

I shift in my seat, remembering how he'd slept beside me last night, his body radiating heat but never touching me. Pure torture. Now, watching him eat with his usual precise movements, I can't stop thinking about those hands on my skin.

"You're staring," he murmurs, taking a slow sip of wine.

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