One of these days, the man is going to give me a coronary.
In a few moments, Mason catches up to me. His legs are so long he doesn’t even have to change his stride as I storm full steam ahead.
We barge down the sidewalk for a while until we come to a small Italian restaurant. It has a green awning and a red neon sign that reads, “Cassinari’s.” Mason grabs my arm and steers me off the sidewalk and down the steps to the entrance. He pulls open the door and swings me through it, following right behind.
“Table for two,” he barks at the young hostess standing inside.
She makes a small peep of terror. Wide-eyed, she grabs a pair of menus, then skitters away.
We follow her to a table in the back corner. The hostess tosses the menus on the table, then runs away in fear, leaving us sitting across from each other in blistering silence.
We grab the menus and glare at them for a while, until a smiling brunette waitress appears at our tableside.
“Good evening,” she says pleasantly, addressing me. “Welcome to—”
Mason shouts, “We’ll have the spaghetti carbonara and the chicken scaloppini with two house salads and a carafe of red wine.”
The waitress pauses a moment, waiting for her hair to settle back around her shoulders. The she says calmly, “I take it you’re not interested in hearing this evening’s specials.”
I like this girl.
“No, thank you,” I say, before Mason can blast her again.
We hand her our menus and she leaves.
When it becomes apparent we could spend the entire meal in hostile silence, I decide to be a grown up and speak first. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
His answer is immediate. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Truce?”
“Truce.” His lips twitch. “Though I’m sure it will last all of two minutes.”
“If that, considering I’m about to tell you I wanted the lasagna.”
He covers his mouth with his fist, trying not to laugh. “And here I was trying to be a gentleman.”
“I applaud the effort. But for future reference, women don’t need to have a man order their meals for them. It’s infantilizing and patronizing.”
“So many rules.”
“You have no idea. Wait until we get to advanced etiquette and you have to identify which fork is for oysters and which is for shellfish.”
He crinkles his nose. “Oysters are shellfish.”
I smile at him. “Correct. You just passed your first etiquette test. But don’t get too cocky, because the dessert fork looks a lot like the shellfish fork.”
This time he doesn’t hide his laugh behind his fist. “And here I thought a single fork was all I needed to eat a meal. Silly me.”
God, he’s handsome when he’s smiling. He’s got a face that was made to melt panties, and that’s a fact.
He says, “What?”
I realize I’ve been gazing dreamily at him and redirect my attention to unfolding my napkin and arranging it on my lap. “I was just wondering what happened to your hand.”
I glance up at him. When his smile vanishes, I’m sorry I asked.
He flexes open his right hand and examines his scraped and bruised knuckles with a dark, dangerous look in his eyes. “I started working out with a heavy bag.”
“How interesting. Now how about you tell me the truth?’
He mutters, “Jesus, you’re a pain in my ass.”
“The Lord has nothing to do with it. Spill, Sparky, or I’ll tell your future wife you have a fetish for ladies underwear.”
“I do have a fetish for ladies underwear.”
“I meant wearing it.”
His quicksilver mood changes again. He smiles, pausing to consider me. “You would’ve made a great spy.”
“How so?”
“You look so innocent, but there’s this whole mob boss thing going on under the wholesome exterior.”
“Wholesome? You make me sound like a loaf of multigrain bread.”
He says drily, “It’s a compliment, Pink.”
“Psh. I’d hate to hear what your insults sound like. Oh, wait. I already know.”
“Are you trying to pick a fight with me? Because you know I’m up for it.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Yes, that I do know for sure.”
The waitress returns with a basket of rolls. Before setting it on the table, she looks at Mason for approval, her brows arched.
He gestures at the tabletop. “Please.”
“Just checking. One learns to tread lightly in minefields.” With a wink in my direction, she turns and leaves.
“I take it you come here often,” I say.
“At least a few times a week. And Lauren takes every opportunity to abuse me.”
The way he says it indicates he enjoys the friendly abuse. My curiosity is piqued. “Is this where you take your dates?”
He pauses for a beat, then starts to fiddle with his knife. “I don’t take anyone here.”
That’s right. He already told me what his normal “dates” consist of, and they don’t involve going to restaurants. “You eat here that often alone?”
Looking at his knife, he answers. His tone is quiet and dry. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the kind of person who has a lot of friends.”
I’m seized by the irrational urge to pull him into a hug and pet his big dark head while murmuring things to comfort him. I sit with it for a moment, amazed how he can bring out my maternal side only a few minutes after I wanted to push him into traffic.
He gives me emotional whiplash.
“I usually eat alone, too. Unless Auntie Waldine comes over, but she’s got a big group of very social lady friends who are attached at the hip. They’re always going dancing or trying the hot new restaurants. She calls them her coven.”
I smile, thinking of her. “I’m not completely sure if she’s being ironic.”
“How many of them are there all together?”
“Eleven. No, wait. Including my aunt, there’s twelve.”
Mason nods. “Yep. That’s a full coven all right. If you see any glass jars at her house labeled ‘eye of newt,’ back away slowly.” He glances up at me and catches my expression. “Now what?”
“You said ‘eye of newt.’”
“And?”
“I was just wondering how many people would have any idea at all what that means. Or where the reference comes from.”
He sits back in his chair, folds his arms over his chest, and sends me one of his superior, down-his-nose looks. “Was that last part a challenge?”
“No, Thor, it wasn’t a challenge. I was complimenting you. Put your ego back in its booster seat.”
“Because I do know where the reference comes from.”
“I have no doubt. Can we move on?”
“Macbeth.”
“Congratulations. You’ve read Shakespeare.”
He studies my expression. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“Remember that time, like ten minutes ago, when I said you were intelligent?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you think I was lying?”
He takes a moment to think about it. “No. But for some reason you have a blind spot when it comes to me.”