Page 10 of The Crowned Garza
“You don’t deserve the pleasure of a spanking.” Delicately, he drags the blade of the knife down my throat that’s bared to him. “You deserve…”
He trails off when I swallow, his eyes transfixed on the movement against the blade.
Helloooo, brain? Are we scared or are we turned on?
A persistent buzzing pierces the intense silence.
Guy gazes down at me for one beat, two beats, three beats longer, before he backs away, sets down the knife, and gets out his phone.
“Cosa?” he answers, walking off.
Exhaling a long, slow breath, I touch my fingers to my throat.
What the hell was that?And why am I not sprinting out the door right now? Do I need more evidence than this to prove he’s nothing like he pretends to be? That he’s a wolf in disguise?
When my useless brain and heart are functioning properly again, I try to eavesdrop on his conversation, but it’s futile. Despite studying the language foryears,I suck at it. Horribly. Can barely construct or comprehend a full sentence. Except for the curse words, of course.
Guy no doubt knows that, given the mental folder he apparently has on me, which might be why he’s openly having what appears to be an acerbic argument with someone in front of me.
Brain, please add “Try harder to understand Italian, you dense twat”on my to-do list.
When the call has ended, he washes his hands at the sink and resumes slicing potatoes without a word.
Bummer. One half of me is desperate to know what he thinks a “brat” like me deserves. The other half is screaming, “Idiot, he had a knife to your throat!”
“That call sounded intense,” I comment instead. “Girlfriend mad at you for being gone this late?”
Ignoring me, he moves on to prepping asparagus.
“Wait, is this her restaurant?” I press, undeterred. “Your girlfriend’s name’s Myrandi?”
He continues to ignore me.
“Ah, a chef girlfriend,nice. I was wondering how you knew your way around a kitchen like this so well. And so adept with knives,” I say. “She taught you?”
“Mammataught me.” His answer catches me off guard, seeing as I’m being a nag on purpose and not at all expecting him to participate. “She’s a Michelin-starred chef and a successful restaurateur.”
Dope. I know of every Michelin-starred chef in LA. Who’s his mom? “Here, in LA?”
A single shake of his head. “InItalia.”
Oh. His family’s not here, then? “Are all your family back in Italy?”
He doesn’t answer.
Hmm,he’s being selective about what he responds to. Which means when hedoesanswer it’s with the truth. “Do you have siblings?”
A nod. “One dead, one alive.”
Yikes.I bite my lip and hold off from asking more for now. He might be an irritable fraud, but he’s still human. As frustrating as my siblings are, I can’t imagine losing any of them.
After a stretch of silence, I ask, “Want me to help with anything?”
“No. Get yourself a bottled water from the fridge over there and hydrate,” he replies. “Or go take selfies for social media or…do whatever it is girls your age are always doing on your phone.”
Girls my age?“I’m nineteen. Twenty in three months.”
“You’re telling me this useless fact because…?”
