Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
No doubt Bob had been surprised Dev hadn’t showed, but probably relieved, too. Petey with the mouth was no doubt even more happy, and you had to wonder if he’d resumed flapping his lips. Or maybe the lesson not to pick on other people had stuck. Either way, none of it was Dev’s problem. He’d tendered resignation through the Wabash business office, and his former foreman would no doubt hear about things on Monday, if not sooner.
The restaurant was another two blocks to the south, and as he came up to the glow of that nightclub’s blue and green sign, he double-checked his gun was in place and entered the alley. There was absolutely no one else out walking, just a couple of cars traveling on the salted roads, and you never knew who you were going to meet.
He was not into complications tonight. He’d had enough already.
As he arrived at the front entrance of the Italian joint, condensation blurred the view of the interior, but there was no mistaking who was sitting at the table in the window.
Like he wouldn’t recognize that fall of blond hair anywhere.
Unfortunately.
Lyric was facing away from him, her profile as if drawn in pastels, all those long, flaxen waves falling down over her shoulders. She was in some kind of a dark blue sweater, and that scarf, the one she’d maintained her dying grandmother had knitted, was around her neck.
“You can still leave,” he said into the icy night.
As his breath drifted off, a waiter approached and she looked up at the man. There was some communication between the two as glasses of water were put down—and then it happened. The man in the white shirt and black apron nodded like he was going to go, except he paused as she resumed staring straight ahead of herself.
The bastard was looking at her, kind of awestruck—
Dev’s body moved before he decided to go inside, and he might have pushed that door open with a little more force than necessary.
And what do you know, the way Lyric’s face lit up as she saw him guaranteed that waiter was going to live to see his next birthday—as did the way the guy took one glance at Dev and backed off quickly.
Fuck, he did not need to start getting possessive over here—
“Hi,” she said.
Lowering himself down across the table from her, he felt himself smile, even with all the shit in his head. “Hey.”
* * *
Okay, Lyric was the first to admit that the brain was capable of dreaming up all kinds of romantic bullcrap.
Particularly when you were lying awake during the day, curled up into your pillow, your family a mess, your career floundering, your purpose in life evaporated… and yet you had a man who had just texted you back that yes, he would meet you for dinner at Roberto’s at seven p.m.
All of that was arguably the breeding ground for delusions of sexual attraction, but, good golly Miss Molly, as Lyric stared at the face she had been busy recasting for the last however many million hours, she could confidently say that the real thing was so much better.
Dev in person was next-level—and she laughed a little. Then almost knocked her water glass over when she went to pick the thing up.
“Sorry.” She took her hands back and put them in her lap. “I, ah—how are you?”
For God’s sake, did she have to sound like someone on a customer service line? In that tone of voice, she might as well ask for his social security number next.
“Good.” His smile faded. Then he glanced around. “Nice place.”
“It is, isn’t it.”
Even though she’d gotten here fifteen minutes early, she brought fresh eyes to the restaurant’s narrow interior and limited number of tables. The uniformed waitstaff brought a little formality to the otherwise casual place, and the countless maps of Italy that hung on the exposed brick walls, from all different eras and in all different frames, made her feel like they were in a lowbrow museum. Overhead, opera music rose and fell, and the smells coming out of the flap door in the back were pure heaven.
There was only one other couple in the place, and they had to be in their sixties, the pair of them each with reading glasses on their noses as they went through their menus.
Dev cleared his throat. Then went for his water glass like a total pro, even bringing it to his mouth and swallowing without a drop spilled.
She was about to comment on it—like he’d mastered some kind of complex skill—but fortunately caught the words before they left her mouth. As she racked her brain for something, anything, to say, she focused on his hands. They were such strong hands, with blunt fingers, and all those calluses.
They had felt good on her waist, and she wondered what they’d be like on her skin—