Page 23 of My Mafia King

“What kind of job?”

I think he knows what kind of job. That’s why he’s looking at my body again.

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

‘What kind of work experience do you have? You’re like… what? Eighteen, nineteen?”

His questions come back to back at a dizzying pace, and I do my best to answer.

“Eighteen?”

He cocks an eyebrow at me.

“You are?” he tosses at me incredulously.

Now he doubts me?

“Yes. Why? I don’t look like I’m eighteen?”

He drops his gaze and stares down, not because the answer is written across my stomach, hips, along my thighs, or at the top of my cleavage.

“I don’t look older, do I?”

I’m suddenly concerned with how I look? And so vain about my age?

“Chill, baby. You look great. You’re young,” he murmurs rather absently, and for the life of me, I don’t know what fuels his disappointment.

“I’ve worked as a waitress,” I say, supplying another answer and taking him by surprise.

He looks at my face this time, sliding back into our conversation.

“For how long?”

He’s all business again.

“This summer. So, a few months. ”

“And you want to work as a waitress?”

He’s setting me up.Seemingly.

His face tells me he is convinced I want to work as a stripper.

“Not necessarily. I want to make more money than I made at my old job.”

The urgency in my voice is obvious, as is the curiosity in his eyes.

His stare is heavy with wonder, and again, I have this feeling this is not a regular man I just happened to run into.

Most people I know have mastered the art of not making eye contact, hiding things about themselves, and not being interested in knowing about me.

Not this man.

He lives inside me and checks things out while holding my eyes.

I don’t know if I have much to offer to satisfy his interest in me.

“Is there a special reason why you need more money?” he quietly asks as people go about their business, swarming the luxurious lobby.

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