Page 119 of Secrets Beneath the Waves
Wow. Jules tugged the phone from her pocket, sent a text to her friends that even through cyberspace was guaranteed to scorch their little eyeballs, then shoved the device into her pocket again. What was the shortest amount of time she could put in here before making some lame excuse and escaping? And what could she tell him, that her no-longer-living grandmother was in the hospital? That her non-existent cat was sick?
While she was in the process of deciding, a glass of cola hit the table in front of her. Jules frowned as she swiped at the splatters on the arm of her jacket. “Uh, thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” Dante dropped onto the chair across from her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he cocked his head. “Friends or family?”
Jules had grasped the handle of the frosted glass and lifted it halfway to her mouth, but she set it down without taking a drink. “Excuse me?” She had to practically yell to be heard over the music.
“You clearly don’t want to be here any more than I do, so who coerced you into it?”
She almost laughed. I mean, the guy wasn’t wrong. After the last dozen or so dates she had been on—before she called a moratorium on any others—his honesty was almost refreshing. Annoying and insulting, but still, refreshing. “Friends,” she admitted. “Or, after tonight, former friends.”
The barest hint of a wry grin crossed his lips. “I’m planning on disowning my three older sisters the second I get home as well.”
Jules managed a weak grin herself before taking a drink and then setting the glass on the table and wrapping her fingers around it. “Since we’re here, let’s at least get the requisite questions in. What do you do?”
Dante hesitated a second, running a thumb over the condensation on his glass, before saying, in a voice so low she read his lips more than heard the words, “I’m a cop.”
“Really.” Jules hadn’t seen that coming. She leaned against the back of her chair and scrutinized him, her lips pursed. Was he telling the truth? “That wasn’t in your profile.”
“Not something we typically splash across the Internet.”
Warmth prickled across her neck at theduhin his voice. “Right. That makes sense.” So, he may or may not be a cop. What did it matter if he was lying? After tonight, she didn’t plan to see Dante de Marco—if that was even his real name—ever again.
An awkward silence fell over the table. Seriously, did the guy have no idea how to hold a normal conversation? He took a sip of his drink as though he was so apathetic about what she did that he couldn’t summon the energy to ask without a hit of sugarand caffeine first. After a few more seconds of heavy silence, he leaned forward, both arms resting on the table. “So. What do you do?”
“What do you think I do?” Jules always asked, intrigued at what people might say. To date, not a single person had ever guessed right the first time.
Dante offered her a slow, perusing look—the most attention he’d given her since she had walked up to the table. His dark-eyed scrutiny sent a jolt through her that caught her completely off guard.You’ve got to be kidding me, Jules. Get a grip.Even if the man was totally her type of tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome—the one thing her friends had gotten right—his looks couldn’t begin to make up for his appalling behavior and off-putting personality.
Although nothing changed in his expression, when he spoke, his voice held a hint of amusement, as though he was utterly aware of the effect his scrutiny had on her. “I don’t know, tailor?”
Jules raised her eyebrows. “Tailor?” She kept her voice neutral, although part of her was tempted to screech the word. “What about me would make you think I was atailor?” Who was a tailor these days, anyway? Where was this guy from, 1810?
“I don’t know.” He flapped a hand in front of her. “You look like you know about… clothes.”
If she hadn’t been caught off guard by some bizarre, emotional tsunami, Jules might have laughed. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Sure.”
Argggh. What in the world had her friends seen in this guy? More to the point, what had she seen—for a few, brief seconds of insanity? Dante de Marco was clearly the most arrogant, obnoxious man it had ever been her misfortune to meet. “Well, I’m not a tailor.”
“What, then?”
Time to end the world’s least fun game. “I’m a firefighter.”
“Really.”
What gave him the right to offer her areallyloaded with as much or more incredulity than hers? “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“I mean, you’re…” Dante flapped a hand in her direction again. So obnoxious. “Small.”
Jules gritted her teeth. “I’m five-eight. That’s not exactly short. And I’m stronger than I look. I work out every day.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I can lift a hundred-and-sixty-pound man.”
The music, which had been ear-splitting the entire time they’d been attempting to converse, suddenly cut out, just in time for her to practically shout those words out into the dead-silent void. People sitting at the tables all around them turned to look at her. Heat crawled up Jules’ neck. The smirk that crossed the face of the guy across the table from her didn’t help.
