“There’s a gem of an Italian place I found a few months back I’d like you to experience. Their spaghetti is to die for.”
“I love Italian food, although I admit I haven’t eaten anything but pizza on the odd occasion I allow myself takeout.”
While I’d been married and busy working my ass off to support myself and my lazy husband, I’d eaten so much junk I’d picked up thirty pounds. Now I keep a strict eye on anything I eat. I am toned and lean, and thanks to my new anal retentiveness I really do have a fantastic ass.
I may enjoy whatever Gregory Lucas has in store for tonight, but I will never let myself go enough to go back to the fat, unhappy loser I was before.
“That sounds like you only eat what you’ll allow yourself. Can’t be too enjoyable, being food conscious,” he says with a frown.
“I eat a lot of things I don’t consider healthy, I just don’t enjoy the thirty pounds takeout adds to my ass. Plus, I like cooking, even if it’s only for one,” I aver, not wanting to get into a heavy discussion about my dietary restrictions.
“Yeah? Maybe you could cook for me sometime. I love home-cooked meals.”
I raise a brow at the liberty and bite my lip to keep from laughing when he pulls a sad, downtrodden face.
“Take pity on a poor lonely bachelor.”
“Oh, Mr Lucas, somehow I doubt you’ve been lonely a day in your life,” I tease, enjoying the banter.
His face goes hard for a second before it is replaced by what I now associate with the seductive guise I’ve witnessed since meeting him.
“Gregory,” he says with a scowl. “And you’re probably right, Hannah, but take pity on me anyway.”
Conversation halts as he pulls into a parking space that must have been sent by the gods — parking in New York is no joke — and comes around to help me out.
“So chivalrous.”
“I do aim to please. Now come on, you’re going to love this.”
The restaurant is tucked away at basement level, something that makes it hard to spot and assures me that the patrons who come here are regulars who guard this secret well.
It’s a typical little bistro with a romantic ambience and a lovely mix of old and new that keeps me staring as a tiny middle-aged woman leads us to a private table in the back.
“So good to see you, Gregory,” she says in a slightly accented voice. “And you bring bella signora.”
I am flattered, even though I’m not too sure my translation is correct, but I suspect she just called me beautiful. I think I like this place, I decide as he seats me and orders a bottle of red wine.
“I hope you don’t mind my presumption. This specific wine is fantastic and I wanted you to try it.”
“No, it’s fine. I like anything made from grapes with a vintage stamp on it.”
See, I can loosen up.
“So, Hannah Newman,” he muses after the wine is delivered and we order our starters. “Tell me why a beautiful woman like yourself is single.”
“Because I’m intelligent?”
A laugh booms out and he tempers it with difficulty, letting me know he enjoys my sharp tongue.
“Touché. But I think there’s a story here.”
“If you want a story, Gregory Lucas, you should read more.”
“Tsk tsk, and here I pegged you for a romantic.”
Me? I am possibly the most opposite to romantic kind of woman alive today.
“Nope. Certified realist here. Sorry to disappoint.”
He sits back, sipping at his wine and watching me as I sip at mine. He’s right, it really is quite lovely. I don’t know much about wine but how to uncork and pour, but I can tell this one is an expensive one.
“I’m not disappointed, just curious now,” he says, and I think it pleases him that I’m not into happily-ever-afters or declarations of undying love.
“You know what curiosity did,” I quip, chuckling slightly at his expression.
The man has big predatory animal down to an art. If I let him, I know Gregory Lucas will eat me up and spit me out.
“Ah, darlin’, but I’m not a pussy cat, am I?”
No, this man is more a lion or vicious tiger than the tame tabbies most men today are.
“No, you’re not. But I’m still not interested in telling you my life story, either,” I say in a hard tone that brooks no argument.
What has happened in my past is my business and none of his. Besides, as far as I’m concerned, the less we talk the better. I’m not interested in being wooed by a player like him. I want honesty, value honesty, and if he insists on playing this game I’d sooner walk out than keep up the banter.
His eyes darken before a genuine smile curves his lips, and I stifle a gasp at the pure beauty. Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful, but at this moment he is perhaps the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld.