“Dinner,” I repeat, firmer this time.
The way I see it, a woman doesn’t drag a bundle of fruit across Manhattan for no good reason. The moment she received the delivery she could’ve pulled a Judy and chucked the arrangement into the nearest trash can. Instead, she’s standing in my precinct, staring at me with those come fuck me eyes.
That’s gotta count for something.
“There’s this little Italian place on the corner, they make a mean meatball hero,” I continue, keeping my eyes pinned to hers as I give her hands a squeeze. “Or do you have something against meat too?”
Shaking her head, she tears her gaze away from me and pulls her hands free.
Fuck, please don’t let her be a vegetarian. That might kill me.
“I can’t,” she whispers as she lifts her hand and combs her fingers through her curls.
Damn, what I would give to do that.
Focus, Pirelli.
“I have to go,” she adds. “I shouldn’t have come here.” She tries to brush past me but my instincts kick into gear and I grab her wrist.
Fuck that.
“Tell me why,” I demand softly.
Sighing, she looks to the spot where my fingers touch her soft skin before her gaze wanders around the precinct, reminding me we have an audience, and judging by the expression on her face, it’s an unwelcome one. Her eyes slice back to mine.
“Because you’re a cop.”
Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “So?”
A frown ticks the corners of her lips drawing my attention to that perfect mouth.
“So, I don’t date cops,” she explains.
Well, it was perfect until those words came flying out of it. Of course she doesn’t date cops. Only criminals that have ridiculous names like Hound. Biting the inside of my cheek, I look away and cringe realizing my entire precinct just witnessed me getting shut down by a chick.
That kind of humiliation would be enough for any other man to tuck tail, but not me.
“Let’s do this outside.”
It’s not really a suggestion since I don’t give her a chance to debate. With a quick tip of my chin in Richie’s direction, I signal to him that I’m done for the day and take Antonia’s hand, escorting her out of the precinct. Once we hit the sidewalk, I release her hand and turn to face her.
She tucks her hair behind her ears and shakes her head.
“Look, it’s nothing personal, Marco.” She stops herself. “I mean, yesterday, I would’ve said otherwise, but then you showed up at my house with my license—”
I cut her off. “Just in time to make your boyfriend jealous.”
“I told you, Hound isn’t my boyfriend,” she snaps. Blowing out an exasperated breath, she cocks her head to the right. “What I’m trying to say is you’re not a bad guy. Yeah, you suck at first impressions, but you’re easy on the eyes…” her voice trails and she offers me a wink. It’s cute as fuck—so is the little smile teasing her lips. “Ok, really easy on the eyes,” she amends before continuing. “...and you sent me an edible fruit arrangement, which was really sweet, but you’re a cop!”
Sweet.
She thinks I’m sweet.
“Aww, you think I’m sweet,” I mock through gritted teeth. Taking a step closer, I touch a finger to her chin and force her eyes back to mine. Shaking my head, I continue, “I didn’t send you that fucking thing to be sweet, Antonia. I sent it because I can’t get you out of my fucking head. I sent it because I woke up this morning wondering what you taste like. What your body feels like. And fuck me, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining what sounds you might make when I make you come undone. When you’re writhing beneath me, begging for more.”
That perfect mouth of hers forms an O, and a gasp flies out.
“But no worries,” I go on, taking a step back. I hold up my hands and shrug my shoulders. “You don’t date cops and I don’t chase girls who don’t want to be chased.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I glance toward the street.
Hell, at this point maybe she’s doing me a favor seeing as she’s got me this wound up and all I’ve done is hold her hand. There’s no way one night with her would be enough and I’m not looking to make a fool out of myself any more than I already have.
That’s what you get for thinking with your dick.
“Marco…” she murmurs.
Done with this conversation, I shake my head. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my keys. I’m about to walk away from her when I remember she said she took the subway here. Muttering a curse, I close my fist around the keys and look at her.
“Where’s your bike?” I grunt.
“Back at the parking garage. I couldn’t carry the arrangement in my saddlebags, so I took the train…” her voice trails as she brushes the hair away from her eyes. “Forget that…” she stammers. “Marco, you can’t say stuff like that and then just ask me where my bike is,” she argues.
“Sure I can,” I reply, grabbing her elbow. I start to lead her down the street, toward the lot where my car is parked.
“Here’s how this is going to play out, I’m giving you a ride back to the office and then we can go our separate ways. No more advances. If I stop at the office to see Soraya and you’re there, I’ll say hello, but you have my word, no more melons.”
“But I like melon,” she protests.
For crying out loud, this girl is making me dizzy.
One minute she’s hot, the next she’s cold.
I can’t keep up.
“And I really like meatball sandwiches.”
I turn to her and she flashes me a smile, the kind of smile you feel deep down in your bones. One you know you’ll never recover from. A smile that will change the entire course of your life if you let it.
Shit.
Inching closer, she tilts her head back and looks up at me.
“And I really like all that dirty talk too, Officer Pirelli.”
Swallowing, I stare back at her.
“That wasn’t dirty talk.”
“Oh?”
This girl is going to ruin me.
Obliterate me.
She’s going to leave me in a million fucking pieces.
“You want dirty talk, keep smiling at me like that and I’ll give you all the filthy words you can imagine.”
Chapter Nine
Antonia
Monday might be a bitch, but her sister, Tuesday, is well on her way to becoming a total twat. At this rate, I’m scared to see what Wednesday is going to bring and let’s not even talk about Friday. By then I should either be fired, married, or fucked.
Literally.
Things were going well for the most part until I revealed Marco as my knight in shining armor to Soraya. There was no mistaking the gloating expression on her face and I immediately fell victim to foot in mouth syndrome. I went from being fully immersed in my work to daydreaming about Marco. I wound up pushing some of the most ridiculous emails through to Soraya’s and, yeah, you guessed it, I cc’d Ida on them too.
That pink slip was inevitable.
But Tuesday wasn’t done. In fact, she left the biggest plot twist for the end of the day. I was powering off my computer, when a deliveryman stepped off the elevator asking for me.
My first thought was that my dad had come to his senses and decided to send me something to congratulate me on my new gig. We may be at odds, but he’s still the guy who showed up to every dance recital with the largest bouquet of pink roses, so it wasn’t that far of a stretch.
I never imagined Marco would send me something and when the delivery guy asked me to sign, I brought the arrangement straight into Soraya’s office. I mean, it was only logical to assume he was sending her, his friend, someone he knew longer than twenty-four hours, a bouquet of fresh fruit and not me, the girl he just met. It’s not like we even hit it off or anything. As far as first meetings go, ours was a disaster and totally unworthy of chocolate dipped goodness.
I set the arrangement down on Soraya’s d
esk, and she looked at me with confusion. Since I had sent her one yesterday to apologize for my tardiness, she must’ve thought it was from me, that it was some sort of calling card and my go-to plan for ass kissing.
“Why are you giving that to me?” she asked.
“It’s yours,” I said with a shrug. “Marco sent it to you.”
“Um, no he didn’t.”
The girl was in denial and I couldn’t blame her. I imagine her husband wouldn’t be too keen on her coming home with another fruit arrangement, especially knowing a man sent it to her. Friend or not, it was weird and shame on Marco for making the moves on a married woman.
“Marco sent that to you,” she said pointedly. “Read the card.”
My cheeks flamed as she plucked the card from the arrangement that had my name on it and handed it to me. Ripping it open, I turned my back to her and read the card.
I don’t want to wait until traffic court to see you again.
I read it three times and each time it became harder to ignore the unfamiliar warmth creeping into the pit of my stomach. Then embarrassment flooded me, and I grew defensive. Guys didn’t do this. Most of the men I dated were morally compromised in one fashion or another, and they surely didn’t abide by those old-school values most women look for in a man. Hell, I’m not even sure men like that exist in the real world anymore.
The point I’m trying to make is, men, don’t send me gifts and little notes expressing their desire to see me. I’m not sure if that’s because men don’t perceive me as a girl worthy of such sweet gestures, or if I’ve just sold myself short by choosing to let the wrong guys into my life.
You’re probably thinking I’m overreacting. Hell, at this point you’re probably calling me a bitch and internally shouting for me to just accept the gift and shut the fuck up. But when a girl isn’t used to being treated a certain way, I think it’s only natural for her to assume the worst. And let’s not forget, I’ve been groomed not to trust anyone with a badge since I came out of my mother’s womb.
So, convinced Marco had an ulterior motive, I grabbed the bouquet from Soraya’s desk and asked her where I could find him. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but looking back now, I should’ve realized she was all too eager to give up his precinct. She even told me what train I should take to make sure I caught him before he left for the day.
There was only standing room on the train so you can imagine how bizarre I looked juggling the monstrosity of fruit in my arms while still trying to hold on to the stanchion. I was the laughingstock of the caboose. By the time I entered the precinct I was sure I looked like a madwoman without a plan.
I made my way toward the desk where a scary woman stood scowling at me like I was a piece of gum on her shoe. Civic hero, my ass. The second I asked for Marco, she muttered a curse under her breath and shouted for him. Apparently, she wasn’t a fan of the gifty cop either.
As soon as he came into my view, I knew I had made a major mistake. Instead of wondering what Marco’s motives might be, I should’ve anticipated how I’d feel the moment our eyes locked. But one thing is certain, I never could’ve prepared myself for how my whole body would heat under the spell of his dirty promises.
“I can’t get you out of my fucking head. I sent it because I woke up this morning wondering what you taste like. What your body feels like. And fuck me, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining what sounds you might make when I make you come undone. When you’re writhing beneath me, begging for more.”
So here I am, in a quaint little Italian restaurant, sitting across from Marco at a tiny table draped with a red and white checkered tablecloth while Frank Sinatra croons on a speaker in the background. I have no idea what I’m doing, but walking away, pretending like our paths never crossed, seems more terrifying than sharing a meal with him.
Feeling the weight of his stare, I carefully avoid eye contact and reach for another breadstick. When in doubt, load up on carbs.
“So,” I start, clearing my throat before I take a bite of the breadstick. “…you and Soraya are close, huh?” I ask with my mouth full. Very ladylike, I know. Did I forget to mention I’m awkward when I’m nervous? Not only am I chewing like a cow, but I am also sweating like a pig too.
It’s really no wonder I attract animals like Hound.
Giving me an easy smile, he pushes the basket of focaccia and breadsticks closer to me.
“If you think the breadsticks are good, you should try the focaccia and dip it in the infused olive oil,” he suggests, reaching to grab a piece for himself.
I stop chewing and watch as he dunks the bread in the olive oil—not once, but three times. Once it’s dripping with Italian liquid gold, he leans over the table and takes a huge bite. A moan erupts from the back of his throat, and my thighs clench together at the sound. You know you have dived into the deep end when you find a man eating a piece of bread as a form of foreplay.
“Damn that’s good,” he praises, lifting his glass of water from the table. He brings it to his mouth and nearly empties the glass in one gulp. I divert my eyes to his neck, watching as he swallows.
Damn, that’s sexy too.
Setting the glass down, he clears his throat and I feel my cheeks flame as I take a piece of the focaccia.
“Where were we…oh, right, Soraya?” he shrugs noncommittally. “I’ve known her since we were kids. Me, her, and my cousin Tig all grew up in the same neighborhood. Things changed once Tig met his wife, Delia, though. The three of them remained tight, but I kind of just went off on my own. Then a couple of years ago, when she and Graham were first starting out, they hit a rough patch. She and Tig suckered me into pretending to be her boyfriend.”
I stop dunking the bread in the oil and lift my eyes to his.
“You’re kidding,” I accuse.
He shakes his head and laughs, pointing a finger toward the side of his face.
“Graham broke my jaw, and they lived happily ever after.”
“Oh God,” I groan, slapping a palm to my forehead. “And last night was a cheap reenactment,” I add, pulling my hand away.
Our eyes lock.
“A cheap reenactment?” he questions.
“Yeah, at least Soraya was a friend, I’m a stranger. Big difference.”
He shrugs his shoulders and taps his knuckles against the table as a gorgeous smile spreads across his lips.
“Well, we’re changing that now, aren’t we?” he probes.
“I guess we are,” I reply, returning the smile.
The waiter, a little old man with bushy eyebrows and thinning gray hair, appears to take our order. The name embroidered to his apron says Luigi. As she and Marco chat I learn he’s the owner of the restaurant and the man behind the killer meatball hero.
Both men praise one another before Luigi turns to me and thanks me. Apparently, Marco isn’t a fan of dining alone and always takes his food to go. Tonight, is the first time Luigi is having the pleasure of serving his favorite patron. I don’t know why I find that so surprising. You would think there’s a long list of girls who’d happily go to dinner with him.
“We’ll take two meatball parm heroes on garlic bread and go heavy on the fresh mootz.” He pauses and turns to me. “Would you like something else to drink?” he questions, tipping his chin toward the glass of water sitting in front of me. “Luigi’s wife makes a mean glass of sangria.”
“Ah, si, molto bene,” Luigi says.
Pulling my lower lip between my teeth, I stare back at Marco. It’s tempting.
“I shouldn’t drink.”
“Why not?” Marco questions. “I can drive you home.”
Someone calls for Luigi and he excuses himself, promising to return with a pitcher of Sangria and more focaccia. I look back at Marco and he raises an eyebrow waiting me to respond to his question.
If this was a date between two normal people that would be ideal, but my bike is at the office and even if it wasn’t, Marco dropping me off at the compound would be a d
isaster. Forget Hound, he’d have to field questions from the entire club, including my dad. I think I’ll stick with the water.
“Another time, my bike is at the garage,” I say.
“Already thinking about another time, huh?”
Realizing my slipup, I roll my eyes and Marco just smirks.
I wonder how many girls have lost their panties to that grin.
“I guess it all depends on whether Luigi’s meatball parm hero lives up to my expectations or not,” I answer.
“You’ll be moaning in twenty minutes,” he says confidently.
“You sound sure.”
Propping his thick forearms on the table, he leans forward.
“There are two things guaranteed to make you moan. The first is Luigi’s meatballs, the second is me. It’s going to take him twenty minutes to plate our food, that gives us time to sneak into the bathroom and test the second theory.”
My stomach flips at the suggestion and I lick my lips. If this is a test, I’m going to fail epically. You see, the thing about dating morally challenged guys is there are no expectations. You know they’re a dime a dozen and if they walk away, you don’t really care. No big loss. But the guy who sends you fruit and takes you to a little hole in the wall restaurant where he introduces you to the owner, you’re not so quick to write him off. You realize guys like him don’t come around all that often and when they do, they’re looking for a specific girl. For the first time in my life, I care whether I fit the mold or not and that scares me, because I wasn’t expecting any of this.
“I’m disappointed,” Marco says. “I was sure you’d either call my bluff or tell me to fuck off.”
My gaze snaps back to him.
“I’m thinking.”
It’s a lame response, but it bides the time.
“The clock is ticking, but we can weigh the options. I don’t need the whole twenty minutes to get you moaning.” Still leaning close, he cocks his head to the side. “Five minutes should do.”
A smile forms on my lips.
“You’re cocky.”
“And you’re stalling.”
Cocky Jerk Page 7