Page 43 of Of Desire And Deception

“I love it,” she answered with a smile that had me letting out a relieved breath.

“Great. I thought we’d go to a restaurant my whole family loves.”

Wynn was quiet as I explained the family connection to Angelo’s on the drive, smiling politely when I parked at the curb and helped her out of the car. I reached for her hand, and she let me slip my fingers between hers as we entered the restaurant.

“Mr. Neretti,” the girl at the front greeted me. “We’ve got your table ready.”

Another staff member rushed over and grabbed two menus. “Right this way, sir.”

I hated when people made a big deal about my presence. The young man led us to the private dining area, offering to take Wynn’s coat.

“No,” I snarled, putting myself between the guy and Wynn. He jumped back as I wrapped my hand around my date’s coat instead of the knife I longed to reach for. Violence pulsed within me, but I tapered the desire and forced my voice to even out. “I’ve got it.”

“Thank you,” Wynn murmured, slipping her arms free from the garment. I froze, taking in the black dress that clung to her body like a second skin. Her shoulders were bared, daring me to sink my teeth in and mark her. And those legs. Fuck, I needed them wrapped around my waist.

The kid excused himself to let us decide on our dinner selection, and Wynn stood there. It took me longer than I wanted to admit to remember I was supposed to pull her seat out. The chair scraped across the floor when I yanked it out from under the table, and I cringed as Wynn lowered herself into the seat. I sat quickly, hoping it would conceal the erection that raged despite my embarrassment.

“What’s good here?” she asked, looking over her menu.

“Everything,” I answered without thought.

“Okay,” Wynn said slowly, peering at me over the top of her menu. Her lips curved. “If you had to choose a favorite, what would it be?”

I considered that. There wasn’t anything on the menu I hadn’t eaten at least a dozen times. Anything Angelo made was good. Maybe this was the listening thing Niccolò had been talking about. “I’d choose the lasagna or the tagliolini al tartufo.”

Wynn nodded and examined the menu. “Sounds delicious.”

You sound delicious, I thought, watching her lick her plump lips. I wanted her tongue running over my lips, over my body—over my cock.

“Have you had a chance to look over the menu?” the server asked, placing a basket of fresh house bread and small plates on the table. Damnit, I hadn’t even heard him approach.

I looked at Wynn, waiting for her to incline her head. “Yeah, we’re ready. I’ll have the lasagna.”

“Perfect. And for the lady?” He turned to Wynn.

“The talgiolini al tartufo,” she said, handing him the menu. I rubbed over the spot in my chest that warmed with satisfaction as she took my suggestion.

“Anything to drink?” he asked.

“Tell Angelo we’ll take whatever wine he’d suggest.” I handed him my menu and held the basket of bread out to Wynn when we were alone again. I mentally reviewed the list of questions I practiced asking. “So tell me a little about yourself.”

Wynn bit her lip nervously and was suddenly laser-focused on buttering her bread. “There’s not much to tell, really. I grew up in New York. Only child in a middle-class family. Everything was great until my dad died. Then my mom lost herself in alcohol because she couldn’t handle the pain of losing him.”

“I’m sorry.” Sympathy seemed like the correct reaction to her sad tale.

“Wasn’t your fault,” she shot back, shoving another bite of food in her mouth and taking her time with it. “Anyway, there was nothing left for me in New York, so I eventually made my way here.”

Her tone was rueful, and I pursed my lips, gauging her meaning. “Not a fan of Chicago, then?”

She shrugged. “I don’t hate it. I’d probably like it better if my apartment had reliable heat.”

“You should move.” You should move in with me. I couldn’t ask her to do that. It would come across as pushy. And a little insane. Nobody asked a woman to move in with them on the first date.

Wynn laughed humorlessly. “I’m a bartender, not a trust fund baby. I live in an apartment that fits my budget.”

Somehow, I’d still managed to seem like an asshole. What was I supposed to say? Apologize. Always apologize to a woman. “I’m sorry.”

“Cosimo.” She rolled her eyes and placed a hand on my forearm. Electricity shot straight to my heart, and my chest tightened at the sound of my name on her lips. “Stop apologizing. Save it for when you’re the cause of my discontent.”

---