Page 12 of Tempting Kat
The line goes dead before I can respond. I stare at my phone, her words echoing in my head. Francesca. Why does that name sound familiar?
Doesn't matter. All that matters is Katarina will be mine in three days. No one else will touch her, taste her, fuck her. Just me.
Only ever me from now on and if I find out otherwise, I’ll have to take care of it and Matteo would be all too happy to help me.
Chapter 4
Katarina
Friday nights make my pussy tingle, and I'm not even sure if it's because of the tips or because of him.
I'm standing outside Euphoria, hands shoved in my pockets, trying to calm my nerves. It's been a weird fucking week. That Infinity date a few days ago still has me feeling off-kilter. Mr. Harrison was nice enough—silver fox in his sixties who just wanted company over a fancy dinner while he talked about his wife who passed last year. Sweet, really. Paid me five grand to listen and nod sympathetically.
But it wasn't exactly what I signed up for.
I want what Frankie has with Alexander. The kind of arrangement where you get fucked six ways to Sunday by a man who looks at you like you're the only thing he'll ever need again. Not some lonely widower who just wants a stand-in therapist with tits. Nothing wrong with what he wants, but it’s not for me.
Pulling open the heavy door, the familiar rush of music, laughter, and liquor hits me like a warm wave. Friday night chaos—exactly what I need to get out of my head.
Santiago spots me from behind the bar and raises an eyebrow. I'm fifteen minutes early, which never happens.
“Did hell freeze over?” he calls as I shrug.
“Shut up.” I flip him off with a grin, ducking under the bar. “I was bored at home.”
“You're never bored at home.” Santiago narrows his eyes. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong. Can't a girl just show up early for once?”
“Not you.” He hands me a shot of tequila. “Pre-shift ritual. You look like you need it.”
I down it without hesitation, letting the burn chase away the jitters. “Thanks.”
“He's not here yet,” Santiago says casually, wiping down the bar top.
My stomach does a stupid little flip. “Who?”
Santiago just gives me a look that says he's not buying my bullshit for a second.
I busy myself by setting up my station, but my eyes keep drifting to the corner seat where he always sits.
The bar fills quickly—weekend rush starting early. I lose myself in the rhythm of pouring drinks, making change, flirting just enough to boost tips. But part of me stays alert, watching the door.
When he finally walks in, my heart does this pathetic little stutter-step. Fuck, he looks good tonight. Dark gray suit pants that fit him like a second skin, no tie, a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
I’ve never really thought about it, but why the fuck are men’s forearms so damn hot?
Our eyes meet across the crowded bar, and something shifts in his expression. He doesn't smile—I've never actually seen him smile—but there's a slight softening around his eyes. Then he does something that makes my brain short-circuit. Instead of heading to his usual corner seat, he tips his head at me and walks toward a booth in the back of the bar.
What the fuck?
My brows furrow as I watch him slide into the booth, setting his phone on the table. In six months, he's maybe sat in a booth twice. Once when the bar was packed to the walls, when St. Patrick’s Day fell on the weekend, and once when he was with some business associate. Always the same corner seat at the bar where he can watch everything, typing away on his laptop while secretly eye-fucking me.
This is…different.
I'm about to pour his usual Michter’s and bring it over—maybe find out what's with the change in routine—when a shriek of laughter erupts from behind me.
“Excuse me! Hello? Bartender?”
