Page 13 of Someone Exactly Like Me (Wounded Hearts 1)
3
Destiny
Barry clears my glass and napkin, setting down a clean napkin and freshly made s’mores martini.
“Okay,” Nicco says. “I will convince you.” Again, he’s expressionless. And again, it’s maddening. He turns my stool to face him. “You’re cold.”
I’m always cold. I rarely admit it because I’m usually the only one in the room who’s cold and I don’t like to complain about it. “No, I’m okay.”
Curling his index finger under my chin and lifting it, he locks his eyes on mine. “You’re cold,” he punctuates.
Instantly, I know my extremely sensitive nipples are greeting him through the silken white fabric, and adrenaline runs through me, making my nipples even harder. Where I would’ve expected some sleezy, flirtatious, sexual reference from him, instead I’m met with discreet and respectful candor as he stands up, takes off his suit jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders.
“Thank you.” I tug the lapels closer together across my chest as warmth flushes into my cheeks.
“This is your favorite drink?” he asks, sitting back down on his stool then pointing at the martini.
“Yes. I don’t drink often, but when I do, I like something sweet. I have a huge sweet-tooth.” I reach for my martini to take a drink and, in full Destiny-klutzery, I manage to graze the rim with the side of my hand, smearing chocolate syrup and graham cracker crumbs from below my pinky down to my wrist. Thank God I didn’t knock the whole thing over. That would’ve been a classic move and thoroughly embarrassing.
Holding onto his jacket so it doesn’t fall off my shoulders, I reach across the bar for a napkin to wipe off my hand. Nicco stops me mid-reach, takes my wrist in his hand and wraps his fingers firmly, yet gently, around it. He grabs a napkin, looking back at me with his smoldering eyes.
Lifting my wrist, he slowly wipes the chocolate syrup off the meat of my hand then moves down to my wrist. The seductive way he drags out the movement sends heat burning up my chest, through my neck, and scorching my face. The rooms spins and blurs around us. My increasing pulse thumps in my ears as he inspects his work.
“Tell me,” he says, releasing my wrist. “What is your soul mate like? I don’t see a ring on your finger. Maybe you haven’t found him yet? Or he hasn’t found you?”
“No, not yet. But I will.” I pause. “Someday.”
“Tell me about him. I want to know.”
Triggered by him, I lash out. “Well, he has a stable job, not uncertain jobs like you and I have. He’s loyal, and by that I mean he doesn’t sleep around. He definitely doesn’t smoke or have tattoos.” With my filters betraying me, it comes out more snide than I’d intended.
Nicco looks down into his drink, then lifts his gaze forward and chuckles. Ceasing his laugh, he turns his expressionless face towards me and follows with his body. With a devious smile, he leans forward, closing the gap between us before I can continue with my description. “So, someone the opposite of me.”
“Yes.” My throat thickens. “Theexactopposite of you.”
He chuckles again and nods.
“Well, what about you? Have you found your soul mate?”
“No. I don’t believe in such things. Besides, I’m finally building the career I want. I wouldn’t have time for that even if I did. You can’t have everything.” Instead of the sips he’d been taking, he tosses a gulp of whiskey down his throat.
“You can if you want it. You have to want it. You can’t expect to find your soul mate when you sleep around with all kinds of different women. With your physical appearance, you’re going to be swarmed by beautiful women forever. Do you plan to just have meaningless sex for the rest of your life?”Filters, FILTERS.
“What do you know about my love life?”
I cock my head to the side. “I told you, Nicco, you have a reputation.”
“And I told you, you can’t always believe what you hear.” He pauses. “So, you like the way I look?” He stares straight into my eyes. I’m not sure he knows.
“Women across the world are hot for you. You don’t need me to validate that for you.”
“Then youdon’tlike the way I look?” Now I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or if I seriously hurt his feelings.
“No. That’s not what I said. You…you’re twisting my words around. I didn’t say that.”
“Maybe you like pretty-boys. Like Brad Pitt. Is he your type?” He air-quotes, ‘type.’
I bat down his hands. “No, I don’t have a type.”
