Page 7 of The Sting of Love
“Is that all you’re adding?”
“Yup.”
“Is that how you make that drink?”
“No. You don’t know me. If you knew me, I’d be adding another four shots and you’d have this drink in a tumbler. Since you don’t know me, I want to make sure that whatever you do with me tonight won’t be influenced by anything other than me.” He gives me a wink, and my lips part.
I just stare at him, trying to process his words and the overdose of sexy he just gave me. I try to gather my composure and pretend I’m not affected by his charm, but he can see through my shit, and I’m sure I’m giving myself away with the blush that I know has turned my skin red.
“How can you be so certain I’ll be doing anything with you tonight?” I throw back trying to act like I’m not charmed by his words.
“It’s called wishful thinking, Bella.”
I melt as the traces of his accent make their way into his words.
He grabs a cocktail glass, pours the drink into it and holds it up.
“Taste it,” he says, sliding the glass over to me.
I take it, and my God does it taste amazing. The combination of fruit is sweet but has that tantalizing effect that has me savoring the intense flavor. The one shot of rum too was just enough of a balance to give it a kick.
“Oh my God, this is perfect. I’d bet if I made it, it wouldn’t taste like this.” I giggle.
“I doubt that, but I’m glad you like it. Now that’s over, you can tell me about yourself.” He leans onto the counter.
I raise my shoulders into a shrug. “There isn’t much to tell.” Since I’m starting to worry that I’m unlucky, maybe it’s best to limit the amount of info with him I share and go for that less-is-more effect.
“What’s your name?”
“Willow.”
“Willow… pretty name.” I love the way he says my name.
“Thank you. My dad is an artist and loves doing landscapes. He loves willow trees, so he thought I should be called that.” I take after my father in every way, and even when kids used to tease the hell out of me at school, I still thought my name sounded cool. I do landscapes too. When I became an artist, I just fell into it, exactly like Dad.
“I like it. I’ve never met a Willow before.”
“Well, now you have. What about you? What’s your name?”
“Donatello, but people call me Donny. It’s easier.”
“Do you like being called Donny?” I definitely think Donatello sounds cooler.
“In the circles I travel in, you get a name and it sticks, whether you like it or not.” He chuckles.
I wonder what kind of circles he travels in, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but something in the way he intensifies his stare stops me. I swallow the words sensing that it might not be something I should ask.
“I don’t mind it,” he adds, seeing my hesitation. “Willow.”
“Some people don’t like shortening their names. That’s why I asked.” I smile and continue drinking my drink, enjoying it and enjoying talking to him.
“I think you’ll find that I’m not like some people. What do you want to call me?”
The glint in his eyes makes my nerves scatter. “I wouldn’t want to be the odd one out, so I’ll go with the crowd even though I think Donatello sounds cooler. Like my father, I’m an artist, and I absolutely love anything Renaissance. So, I’m inclined to think that Donatello, as in Donatello di Niccolò di Betto Bardi, the renaissance artist and sculptor, sounds cool.”
He looks impressed. “Wow, I knew there was definitely something I liked about you. Although I was named after him, people never really make the connection when they hear my name.”
“No?” I’m surprised to hear that.
