Page 23 of Pucking One Night Stand
Ugh. I want to slap myself for that thought as I open the door and step inside.
The place smells like marinara and red wine. The walls are packed with old black-and-white photographs ofThe Rat Pack, Perry Como, Frankie Valli,andRocky Marciano.
Actually, that’s nice. A shelf is lined with tiny liquor bottles like some boozy toy collection. Quirky. Strange. Kind of adorable. The lighting is low and warm, like they want you slightly tipsy and overly emotional before the tiramisu.
I can't believe I've never been in here.
And of course. An accordion player wanders between tables, squeezing out some tragic Italian tune.
Then I see him.
Jaxon. In the far corner. He’s already standing, bright-eyed, like this is a date or something. Jesus. His hair’s all perfectly tousled, he’s wearing that shirt I used to steal to sleep in, and he looks hopeful. Gross.
But my eyes flick past him for a second, because hanging above the bar is a massive sign that reads:
Classic Italian dishes are all served with unlimited house wine.
Unlimited. Now this is my kinda place.
A waiter appears beside me with a clipboard and a hopeful smile, but I don’t even look at him. I just head straight toward Jaxon, my brain clacking like war drums.
He sees me coming and lights up like a damn Christmas tree. By the time I reach the table, he’s already walking around like he thinks he’s starring in some Nicholas Sparks apology montage. His arms come up like he’s about to kiss me.
I wince and twist to the side so fast I nearly dislocate a shoulder. “Nope. Not happening,” I mutter.
He stops mid-motion, his arms awkwardly half-raised, then lets them drop.
“Okay…” He draws the word out like he's the one who's been wronged. He shuffles back around and sits down.
I pull out the chair across from him and sit, slowly, already regretting being here. He leans forward, all rehearsed earnestness.
“So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he starts, his voice soft like he’s unveiling some grand emotional revelation. “And I just… I know we hit a rough patch, but I really think we owe it to ourselves to try again. You and me, Cass. We had something. Something real. I still lo—”
“Jaxon. Shut up.” My voice is flat. “Look, maybe I was wrong for ending it over a text, okay? That wasn’t exactly my classiest moment. But we’re over.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “I forgive you.”
Of course, he does.
A waiter arrives before I can stab him with my butter knife. He sets down a steaming plate of fettuccine alfredo with grilled chicken in front of me, and a plate of veal parmigiana for Jaxon, then places a basket of garlic knots between us. A bottle of red follows.
I blink at the food like it’s some kind of mirage. “Sorry. I haven’t ordered anything yet.”
“Oh, I ordered for you.” Jaxon grins like he just brought me flowers and a puppy. “I know what you like.”
I stare at the pasta, then back up at him. “Jesus Christ. Nothing changes.” I shove the plate away. “You are such a control freak.”
He actually laughs. Not even nervous laughter. No. This man is amused.
“See,” he says, still grinning. “You’ve still got that fire. I can see it. You’re still in love with me.”
I stare at his face. That cheesy, overconfident smile like he’s just waiting for me to lean over the table and confess my undying attraction while ‘That’s Amore’ plays in the background.
“Jaxon.” I lean forward slightly, voice tight. “Watch my lips. You. And. Me. We're over. I am not in love with you. And please don’t ever contact me again.”
I push my chair back with a screech, stand, and grab my bag. I don't even give him time to blink before I’m storming toward the door.
“But Cass—”
