The broccolini gives way under my careful slice before I trail a bite-sized piece through the glistening reduction, a sharp awareness prickling up my spine.
I’m not giving in. This isn’t surrender. Eating what I’ve been served is the low-key, non-reactive response. Right?
The first bite lands with devastation, the broccolini hitting my tongue and decimating my taste buds and every buried impulse along with it.
It’s hard to swallow through the want. The ruin. To pretend all the nerves in my body aren’t yearning for a man I’ve fought hard to forget yet still struggle to live without.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” Lincoln’s voice pitches.
I raise my gaze, not realizing he’s answered a call until I see him wide-eyed, skin paling as he holds his phone to his ear.
“Yes, of course.” He places his napkin on the table and pushes from his chair in a rush. “I’m on my way. I’ll be right there.” He fumbles to end the call and scoot his seat under the table. “I’m sorry, Isla, I have to leave. My mom… She’s been in an accident.”
My insides lurch, my thoughts narrowing to the obvious culprit and what he might have done.
“Of course.” I prepare to stand and say goodbye, but Lincoln’s gone before I find my feet.
I watch him weave through tables and escape through the restaurant’s front door before my clutch begins to vibrate.
I snatch at my phone. Find Raffael’s name again. Don’t hesitate to answer.
“Did you hurt his mother?” I demand.
“How could you ask such a thing?” His voice is sin—devilish and devastating. “I didn’t do anything to his mother. I’m sure she’s perfectly fine and your date is worried over nothing more than a hoax.”
Annoyance should overwhelm me. Why doesn’t outrage boil my blood?
Instead, it’s as if I’m being sucked into a whirlpool, my endearment to his tactics an intoxicating torrent I can’t escape. “Raff?—”
“Enjoy your meal,la mia rovina. I’ll be waiting.”
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
ISLA
He cutsthe call on me.Again.
My face heats, and it’s not due to building defiance like it should be.
What surges through me is need. Raw and reckless. The urge to see him is undeniable. The impulse to drag him out of my thoughts and back into reality a hardship I no longer care to endure.
I want to make him solid. Tangible. Touchable.
I grit my teeth through the poisonous itch, white-knuckle my cutlery, and focus on my meal. Each bite is a quiet act of rebellion, each delicious mouthful an added hit of remembrance. But I chew through it, ignore how I’m unraveling with every swallow, just in case he’s still watching.
The second my plate is cleared I drain my wine and signal for the bill.
My server returns with a pleased smile. “Your dinner has already been taken care of, ma’am.”
I blink. “My date paid before he left?”
“Ah, no.” There’s a telling pause that lands like a gavel. “Another gentleman handled it earlier.”
Raffael.
I nod, murmur my appreciation for the meal, and pretend my skin isn’t prickling with awareness as I leave the restaurant and direct a cab to take me home.