Page 16 of Ruined Vows

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I love languages and foreign places, but I have no desire to live in his country. Serbian food sucks, too.

I look at my watch and it’s six a.m.. He’s older, and older people tend to be early risers, so he should be up.

Reluctantly, I text him.

First date, The 10th Round. 8 a.m.

I’ll pick you up.

I’m good.

A date consists of me picking you up and taking you home. This is not negotiable.

Damn him. He’s taking every opportunity to be alone with me.

I huff.

Fine.

Are you planning to wear black for every date, or just until I earn a smile?

He won’t take no for an answer. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Maybe it’s because most men give me what I want—immediately.

And I hate them for it. I want to earn what’s mine, and I don’t appreciate anything that’s handed to me.

I stare at the message, then snort—bold of him. But then again, so was showing up to a mafia shoot-out wearing thousand-dollar shoes and a death wish.

It’s slimming. And practical. In case I need to bury someone during a workout.

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when the screen lights up.

God, I hope it’s me. I want to be the first man you look at while wielding a shovel.

I lose it. My grin slips out before I can stop it.

This man.

He’s not trying to win me with flowers. He’s trying toget under my skin.

It’s almost working.

You have a strange death wish, Petrovic.

And I hate that I type faster than I think.

Pick me up at eight. But be warned…

I like warnings.

I’m still armed.

So am I. And I’m not just talking about the Glock under my seat.

Fuck me.

He’s deadly even without a gun!

I have to admit he’s got a sense of humor. That’s a plus. And he’s creative. Which makes me wonder what he’s like in bed.

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