Page 44 of Indulge
I blow out a breath and back away before I get a semi. Her ass. Those tight leggings. Nope. Stop thinking about my brother’s fiancée like that right now.
By the time we hit downtown, the air’s cooler, but I’ve got a heat inside me. Bella sits beside me, legs crossed, hair pinned up in a way that makes it look like she didn’t try too hard. Which means she tried just enough to wreck me.
“What are those balls on your head?” I ask.
I’ve never seen that hairstyle before. It’s hot as fuck.
“My space buns.” She smiles.
“You don’t like them?” She frowns.
I wink at her. “I think they’re cute.”
I park outside a small Italian place tucked between an old bookstore and a jazz bar. Red brick, low lights, and smells like garlic, wine, and something sinful.
“This looks nice,” she says, sounding half surprised.
“I’m a man of taste,” I tell her, opening her door. “And carbs. Mostly carbs.”
She laughs, that unguarded sound that hits like a punch to the ribs.
Inside, we slide into a booth. The waiter hands us menus, but she’s already looking at me, chin propped on her hand.
“So,” she says, “tell me something I don’t know about you.”
I lean back, smirking. “I once broke my hand punching Keller Russo.”
Her eyes widen. “You foughtKeller? The Killer Russo?”
It’s kinda nice she knows who he is.
“He started it.”
“I doubt that,” she says, trying not to grin.
I lift my glass of wine. “He insulted my guitar skills.”
She laughs. “So you punched him?”
“Full swing. Broke two knuckles. He bought me a new guitar the next day.”
“Sounds like a very healthy friendship.”
“We’re all like that.”
She toys with her fork, watching me. “You really love music, huh?”
The waiter comes over and takes our order, simmering some of the tension for a second. Once he’s gone, I clear my throat. Something about her, her energy perhaps, makes me want to open up, more than I ever have in my damn life.
“It’s the only thing that ever made sense. When we had nothing as kids, it’s the one thing that kept me sane. Gave me something to escape to.”
Her expression softens. “You could still do it. Music, I mean.”
“Maybe someday. Once we clean up all the messes here.”
Her lips part like she wants to say something, but the waiter drops our food and breaks the moment. She eats like someone who hasn’t enjoyed a meal in years, licking sauce from herthumb and making soft noises of approval that make my blood run hotter than it should.
“Good?” I ask.
