Page 7 of Tempting Kat
Yes. Text me when and where.
I lean my head against the cold window, watching the city lights blur as the bus rumbles through empty streets. What the fuck am I getting myself into? Vivian's idea of perfect could mean anything from a tech bro with a foot fetish to some geriatric Wall Street type who can only get it up if I call him grandpa.
Well, I guess either way I won’t be fucking bored anymore. I’ll make some cash, and I’ll have stories for days to entertain people with.
Chapter 3
Conrad
The TV drones on in my bedroom while my mind's trying to focus on the email in front of me. An obnoxious infomercial interrupts my train of thought. An overly enthusiastic blonde gushing over a vacuum cleaner. “Oh my god, Kat. This vacuum makes cleaning a breeze and leaves your floors spotless!” My cock stirs under the sheets at just the fucking name.
Katarina. My kitty kat. Not mine yet, but she will be.
I grab my phone off the nightstand, checking the time. Wednesday night. Two more days until I see her again. Forty-eight hours and some change until I can sit at that bar and watch her move, listen to that smart mouth of hers, imagine all the ways I'd shut it up.
Santiago texted earlier that he offered her more shifts again. Said she turned them down, like always. Part of me is pissed—what the fuck is she doing that's more important than making money? But another part feels fucking relieved. One night a week is torture enough. Seeing her more might push me over the edge I'm barely clinging to.
I toss the remote aside and adjust my hardening cock through my boxers. This happens every time I think about her, which is pretty much a constant these days. That mouth. Those breasts. The way her ass looks in those tiny fucking shorts she wears.
My security system pings, and I grab my phone, swiping to the camera feed. Just the night guard doing his rounds. Sometimes I pull them up when I can't sleep, just to people watch and maybe hope I might catch a glimpse of her even though I know I won’t.
My phone starts vibrating, rattling against the nightstand. I grab it, ready to bark at whoever's interrupting my late-night fantasizing, but the name on the screen stops me.
“Matteo,” I answer, sitting up straighter against the headboard. “It's been a minute.”
“Conrad, my friend.” His voice is thick with his Italian accent that never quite faded despite growing up here. “Too long. I've been thinking about you today.”
I run a hand through my hair, instantly knowing why. “Antonio's birthday.”
“Yes.” The word comes out heavy, weighted with grief. “Can you believe it? My little brother would've been forty today.”
I swallow hard, memories flooding back. Antonio Marino—Matteo's younger brother, my friend since we were kids running wild through Little Italy and he would tag along. Dead at thirty-two from a bullet meant for someone else. Wrong place, wrong time. The Del Mar family made sure those responsible paid, but it didn't bring him back.
“I remember,” I say, my voice rough. “Hard to forget.”
“I'm having a drink for him,” Matteo says. I can hear ice clinking in a glass. “Thought you might be doing the same.”
I reach for the decanter on my nightstand, pouring two fingers into the empty glass. “I am now.”
We sit in silence for a moment, both drinking to a ghost.
“How's business?” he asks finally.
“Good. Expanding. Just bought another bar downtown.”
“Another one? Christ, Conrad. How many does that make now?”
“Six,” I answer, not bothering to mention the three restaurants, the nightclub, or the real estate holdings. Matteo knows I've done well. Better than either of us expected for a couple of street rats from the old neighborhood.
“And your personal life?” he asks, a smile in his voice now. “Still married to your work, or has some lucky woman finally dragged you away from your empire?”
My mind immediately flashes to Kat—her green eyes, that smart mouth, the way she called me Daddy as a joke that didn't feel like a fucking joke at all.
“No one serious,” I lie.
Matteo laughs. “You're full of shit, amico. I can hear it in your voice. There's someone.”
“There's always someone,” I deflect. “Just not anyone worth mentioning.”
