Page 54 of The Boyfriend List
"Definestrange."
"Legal but outside of the norm."
"Darn. There goes my hobby of defacing tombstones," he deadpans.
I chuckle, starting to loosen up a little. Even though I don't think I could ever have feelings for Giorgio, he is a good friend.
But why can't London just be a good friend that I'll never have feelings for?
The door to the restaurant flies open with a chiming of the bell. Giorgio looks over and the blood drains from his face before he stands up and waves. "Hey, London!"
London doesn't respond. Instead, he marches over to our table, pulls up an empty chair, and sits down. I've never seen him like this.
He’s not shocked, like he was in the hospital room with Reggie. Instead, he’s…
Angry?
I've never annoyed London enough to merit that expression. Even road rage doesn’t get to him. His fists clench as he sets them on the table, a prominent vein standing out in his neck. London’s furious gaze tracks between me and Giorgio, who sits back down.
"Hi, London," I say. I hate that my voice is as quiet as it is—that I feel like an interloper whenhe'sthe one who interrupted our date.
"Gloria," he says flatly. "Giorgio."
Giorgio clears his throat. "I'm suddenly not feeling well. I'm going to ask the waiter to box up my entree."
Before I can say anything, he counts out two fifties, laying them on the table before fleeing to the hostess stand.
"What are you doing here?" Now that the initial shock of seeing London has died down, indignation floods me. "How did you know where we were?"
It must have been the phone call that Giorgio was being cagey about. But why would London call him in the middle of our date? And why would Giorgio ask London not to beat him up?
Surely, London isn’t…jealous.
"Giorgio told me."
"Giorgioleft in the middle of our date to answer your call, and now you forced him to leave," I say. "Why, London?"
"Were you even having a good time with him?" he demands instead, his dark eyes burrowing into mine. Usually, they look earnest and sweet, reminding me of rich hot chocolate. Now, they're dark, almost jet black, and remind me more of hardened obsidian, brittle and lethally sharp.
"Why is that any of your business?"
"Because—" He rakes a hand through his hair. "He doesn't deserve you."
"Then who does?" I snap. "It's certainly not you, because you don't evenwantme."
He blinks at me like I've slapped him. "What?"
"You don't want me. London, I saw your face when Reginald said he wanted the two of us to get together. You looked… disgusted. Horrified. Like it was unthinkable that you could ever want to be with me."
"Is that what you think of me?" he says, his voice low.
"Yes!" I shout, standing up and grabbing my purse. I don't even know how I'm going to get out of here—I guess I could call an Uber—but all I know is I can't stay any longer. "Because what else could I think of you? It’s not like you said anything when Reginald practically forced you to ask me out!"
London just stares at me for a long moment, taking me in from my curled hair to my three-inch heels. "I'll take you home."
"That's all you have to say?" I say.
"I'm taking you home," he says, "because the things I have to say to you can't be said in a Greek restaurant with every eye on us."
