Page 19 of Pack Favero

“Who needs a bus when you have a driver on call,” I tease, fighting a blush when she laughs. Once she’s seated, I offer her the flowers and say, “These are for you. I meant to give them to you earlier, an apology for your phone. They reminded me of your hair.”

“Oh,” she breathes, eyeing the vibrant-orange tiger lilies with shock. It’s almost like she’s never received flowers before,which I find very hard to believe. A woman who looks and smells like Zira would surely be used to the occasional bouquet.

As soon as I’m sitting in the car, the door shutting soundly after me, Zira confesses, “Thank you. I’ve never received flowers before.”

Well, shit. Color me every shade of wrong.

“That’s criminal, pretty girl,” Ford complains, shaking his head before flashing her a grin. “A woman like you deserves all the flowers.”

I’m sure she’s blushing profusely, and I grin as I peer out of the window as Ford pulls away from the sidewalk and merges with the late afternoon traffic. We drive in silence for a little while until Zira’s lyrical voice fills the car. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your afternoon by asking you for a ride.”

“Not at all,” Ford assures once more, and I catch her nod as she hugs her new flowers to her chest like they’re her most prized possession. Zira Favero is an enigma, for sure. Where most people would consider a brand new cell phone something to cherish, Zira seems to prefer the more thoughtful gifts. It’s a nice change, having gone through life avoiding gold diggers and those who were only after what they could get out of us.

After all, you don't build several very successful businesses across the world without side effects. Ford and I are no strangers to thwarting off women and men who only want to know us, befriend us, or be with us for the money. We have no interest in those people.

Zira, though? She seems like she abhors the very idea of lavish spending and fancy rich people things. I love it.

When the car falls silent once more, I decide to fill it instantly, wanting to hear more of her voice. “Have you eaten, Zira?”

“Uh, no. I just spent time with Mom while she did her physio and berated me for my treatment of Barnes and Lazarus,”she answers, nodding to herself as she narrows her eyes and fights a wince.

Laughing, Ford asks, “Well, that just won’t do. What do you say to dinner?”

Zira grows silent for a long moment, likely thinking it over, before she asks, “That depends.”

“On…?” I ask, lips twitching.

“Where you’re thinking of eating,” she answers, just as I hear the crinkle of paper and a subtle inhale, which is followed by a sweet whisper. “I love lilies.”

Ford and I share a smile, before I declare, “Women’s choice. What takes your fancy?”

Turning to look over my shoulder, I catch Zira grinning into her bouquet, and she lifts her head to say, “I could go for pasta, honestly.”

My belly grumbles, and Ford laughs. “Oh, pretty girl. Those are magic words for Mac and me. We know just the place.”

It takes very little time to arrive at Dolce Vita, the best Italian restaurant in a ten-mile radius. Once parked, I get Zira’s door for her and she sends me a shy smile with a soft, “Thank you.”

I match her smile, feeling my cheeks heat the same time hers does, and I chuckle lowly before gesturing to the entrance. “Come on. Charlie is a friend of ours, and he makes the meanest chorizo & mozzarella gnocchi bake.”

“Oh, yeah. That stuff is to die for,” Ford agrees, holding his arm out for Zira.

She barely hesitates before linking her arm with his, eyeing the outside of the quaint building and down at her dress. I don’t know what compels me to do it, the look of discomfort and self-consciousness fluttering over her face setting me into motion, but I press my hand to Zira’s lower back and swear to her, “You’re the most well-dressed person here, trust me.”

Then I gesture to myself, pointing out the tight black sweats I’m wearing, an even tighter black shirt covering my upper half, and my grubby Nike sneakers covering my feet. Then I gesture to Ford, who is still wearing my hoodie, his gray sweats, and matching shoes.

“It’s a low-key kind of place, pretty girl. You’re gonna love it,” my brother promises, winking again and watching closely as she blushes oh so prettily just as her face breaks out in a smile that makes me feel like I’ve won the life lottery.

So, with my brother and me escorting her on either side, we lead Zira into the coziest restaurant in town and wait to be seated. It doesn’t take long before Charlie spots us, his whole body shaking with a laugh as soon as he catches mine and Ford’s eyes.

“If it isn’t my favorite customers,” he bellows across the room still occupied by several patrons, his Boston accent as thick as the pizza crust he serves at his restaurant.

Grinning, Ford shakes his head and calls back, “I bet you say that to all the customers.”

“You know it, boyo,” the man teases, grinning wide enough that his cheeks grow impossibly rounder, giving him the appearance of Orville the Duck. When he comes over, he offers Ford and me a tight hug before pulling back and dropping his gaze to the beauty between us. “And look at that, you brought a friend. Welcome, honey.”

“Thanks,” Zira replies, grinning widely at the man as though she instinctively knows the man is safe. And he is. He’s a big teddy bear, moreso to sweet women, because they remind him of his omega wife he owns the restaurant with.

Think of the devil and she shall appear. Amara exits the kitchen a moment later, donning her chef’s hat that covers her thick, dark hair and an apron that dwarfs her four-foot-ten frame. Her cheeks are flushed with heat but a friendly smile tugsat her lips the moment she spies the three of us.

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