Page 128 of Love What's Left
Mouth hanging open, I stare as Tony scurries off with his entree.
“You are such an asshole, McRae,” I mutter.
“That was menotbeing an asshole. I let the guy take his dinner,” he says incredulously.
“He turned out to be a little weird. I could have handled him.”
His jaw flexes. “Don’t be naive.”
I almost laugh at that. “I’m not naive. Did you forget my childhood?”
“I was trying not to offend you by using the word ‘gullible.’”
“How did you even know I was here?” I ask.
“Your driver is on my payroll. Remember?”
Why do those words make my chest hurt?Because I don’t want to be someone he’s required to keep tabs on.
The young blonde server clears Tony’s place setting and replaces it with a new one.
“I’ll take my food to go,” I tell her.
“Sounds good. I’ll do the same. We can have dinner and catch up at your place. I’d prefer the privacy,” Gabriel says.
The waitress’s attention bobs between us like she’s watching tennis.
I smile at the confused young woman. “Never mind. We’re fine here.”
She nods, then heads back to the kitchen.
“It’s almost as if you don’t enjoy me showing up at the apartment I provide for you.” Gabriel shrugs out of his suit jacket with a pious smile.
“It’s better than insinuating yourself into my date.”That wasn’t actually a date,but he doesn’t need to know that.
He moves to the chair Tony vacated, drapes his jacket over it, and folds his sleeves up his tattooed forearms. “He was a douche. You told him we weren’t together, and he didn’t even ask if you needed help.”
“You intimidated him.”
“If he can be intimidated that easily, he was too soft for you, anyway.”
“Maybe I like my men soft.” I roll my lips in and pretend I didn’t say it on purpose to make him laugh. I don’t like my men soft. I like them tall, with green eyes and tattoos and har—I fan my face with my napkin.The point isI didn’t like Tony. But I do like making Gabriel smile.
He chuckles. “The jokes write themselves.”
Gabriel gives our waitress a sexy smile as she returns and places his own Mediterranean chicken dinner in front of him. There’s no way the chef had time to prepare it that quickly. They either gave him someone else’s order, or he called ahead so it would be waiting for him. “Thanks, Cat. This looks great. How’s your senior year going?”
She blushes. “It’s good. Only one more semester of undergrad.”
“Accounting, right?”
“Yes.”
“If you decide you want to transition to our corporate office afterward, call my executive assistant and tell him I said to get you set up with an interview.”
She beams. “I will. Thank you.”
When she walks away, I tamp down the urge to ask him if he’s slept with her yet. I don’t want to know. If he did, my favorite restaurant will be ruined forever by association.
