Page 38 of The Woman on the Exam Table

---

He didn’t look back at me.

Taking a steadying breath, trying not to allow myself to feel the disappointment that started to spread through my chest and belly, I made my way over toward his table.

There on the surface was a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

To pay for the food he didn’t eat.

And a tip.

I knew that.

Like, of course.

But I couldn’t help the strange, shameful little voice that said it had little to do with the cheap food and more to do with what had happened in the bathroom.

I mean, it was ridiculous.

A hot mafia guy didn’t need to pay for sex.

And it wasn’t even sex.

He’d gone downon me.

No guy would pay to go down on a woman and get nothing in return.

I tucked the money into my book and let my gaze move out onto the street, watching his retreating form as he walked down the street.

He didn’t look back.

And I tried like hell to tell myself that I didn’t care.

But every freaking ounce of me was begging for him to look back at me.

The thing was… he didn’t.

And I would just have to learn to live with that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Whitney

It had been days.

Days and days, even.

But, still, when I heard a knock at my door, my stupid heart leaped into my throat like there was even a small chance that Salvatore was going to show up and finish what we’d started in the bathroom at my work.

“One second,” I called, pulling the tray out of the oven and setting it on the stovetop before rushing to the door.

It wasn’t him.

Of course it wasn’t.

It was my sister.

And I was furious with myself for being disappointed with that fact as I reached up to slide the locks.

“Hey you! This was unexpected,” I said, forcing my voice to be cheery even though it was just that—forced.

---