Part 2 (2/2)
”Only the nosy ones working for me. I don't see you running away.”
”I can't. You're holding my car hostage. Speaking of which, I need to pay for it before closing.”
”Don't worry about it.” He handed her the key to her car. It hung from a ring with a numbered manila tag. ”Let me get my coat, and we can leave.”
”No. I mean thanks, but I don't want to get you in trouble, and I need to buy a spare-”
Nick moved closer and put his hand on her shoulder. She'd taken off her trench coat; the heat from his hand seeped through her suit jacket.
”I replaced the tire. The nail in it was too close to the edge to fix. And you have a new full-size spare. I won't get into trouble, so forget about it.”
”Still, I can't accept, but thanks. I'll settle up with Trudy while you get your coat.”
Nick shook his head and ran his hand though his hair. ”Fine. I'll have Trudy charge you cost, but no labor.”
Nick spoke in hushed tones to Trudy. The two of them nodded a lot and shot incredulous glances in her direction. After Nick left, it took a few minutes for Trudy to punch the information into the computer and come up with a bill.
Nick returned, wearing a leather bomber jacket. ”Are you ready to go? I'll follow you home to drop off your car.”
”Why?”
”We're going out to dinner.”
”I'll follow you to the restaurant.” Rosalie dug through her pocketbook for her wallet. After she'd found it, she noticed Nick had his jaw clenched. Trudy shoved the bill toward her and moved over to the other side of the long counter.
Nick's arms were crossed, and he didn't look like a happy camper. He spoke through clenched teeth. ”I never let my dates drive.”
She couldn't believe him. She should have been outraged, but he looked so s.e.xy, all annoyed. He got a tick by his left eye, ran his fingers though his hair, and stood with his feet apart so his slacks stretched tight across his thighs and package. Her heart raced as if she'd run five miles. Not that she ever had, but if she did, she a.s.sumed her heart would race like that. She wondered if looking at Nick could burn the same number of calories as running. If it could, every woman alive would be flinging her running shoes in the trash.
”Nick, I hardly know you. I'd prefer to drive myself.”
”You don't trust me? I'm a good guy. Ask Trudy. She'll vouch for me.”
Nick was tall. When Rosalie wore heels, she was in the neighborhood of six feet-yeah, they were four-inch heels, and no, she didn't wear them because they make her legs look amazing-but Nick still towered over her. Well, maybe towered was an exaggeration, but in her book, if she wore heels and the guy wasn't eye level with the twins, he was a keeper.
”I don't care if the Pope himself vouches for you. I'm still going to take my car and meet you at the restaurant.”
Rosalie had a few first-date rules. Rule number one- Always meet the guy in a public place in case he turns out to be a psycho. That way, she could cut out without having to walk eighteen blocks to a subway station in a bad neighborhood where even taxis feared to tread. A lesson learned by experience.
Rule number two-Never sleep with the guy on the first date, no matter what, even if her hormones told her to hurry the h.e.l.l up, they wanted a cigarette.
Rule number three-If you fight on the first date, don't make a second. d.a.m.n, she hated that one. Well, right now, she pretty much hated rule number two as well.
By Rosalie's definition, a fight meant both parties had to partic.i.p.ate. To avoid that, she came up with the perfect compromise. ”How about I drive you to the restaurant?”
That way, if he turned out to be a psycho and she had to make an escape, he'd be the one stuck walking through a dangerous neighborhood, not her, thus following rule one and rule three.
Rosalie thought he'd be happy, but no, he had a look of absolute horror on his face. So much for her brilliant plan.
”Look, Nick, I appreciate you taking care of my car, but it's getting late, and I don't have much of an appet.i.te.”
”You follow me to the restaurant, and I'll follow you back to your place. No date of mine leaves without me seeing her home safe.”
”Fine, whatever. Let me finish paying, and we can go.”
Trudy seemed to have enjoyed every second of their debate. Rosalie studied the bill and saw that Nick hadn't charged her for towing. She wanted to point out the discrepancy, but he'd give her a hard time, and she wasn't up to avoiding another fight. It went against her nature. Rosalie liked nothing better than a good bout of verbal sparring to get the blood flowing, but she had to consider that pesky rule number three. Plus, fighting with a guy sometimes ended in hot, sweaty, make-up s.e.x, but because of rule number two, that couldn't happen.
Nick checked the rearview mirror of the new Mustang he drove. Rosalie had no problem following him. It would be almost impossible to lose her. That neon yellow car stuck out like a sore thumb. He shuddered at the thought of riding shotgun in the Barbie Mobile. He had his reputation to consider. He'd lose his credibility and the respect of his staff in one fell swoop. Plus, he'd never live it down if someone in his family found out-and they always found out.
Nick parked a few blocks away from DiNicola's, his cousin's restaurant, hoping no one would notice she'd followed him. He had her door opened before Rosalie cut the engine. Her long leg snaked out, and he almost forgot to offer her a hand. d.a.m.n, he'd been so busy arguing with her that he hadn't noticed what she was wearing. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with him? Her trench coat had fallen open to reveal one of those sinfully s.e.xy suits with a skirt so short, the jacket almost covered it, and heels so high and spiked, they were an engineering marvel. Her legs were already long with a capital ”L.” He guessed she stood five-eight or nine in stocking feet, most of which was leg. Wearing those stilts made her almost his height, not that he had a problem with that. In fact, he liked tall women, and with those heels, they lined up perfectly... to dance.
Yeah, dancing would be good. He hated to dance, but a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do. Rosalie didn't seem the type to kiss, much less screw around on the first date, and he didn't think he'd last the night without at least holding her. Good thing he and his cousin Vinny had a system down since the old days when Nick brought all his dates here. But back then, Nick washed dishes Sat.u.r.day night to pay for his Friday night date, and Vinny had all his hair. Nick would ask to sit in the back room, away from the crowd, and Vinny would put on Sinatra, the patron saint of single men everywhere. Nick never failed to make it to third base with Ol' Blue Eyes in his corner.
Nick opened the door for Rosalie and cringed when he saw Mona working the desk. ”Nicky!”
The bleached blonde bimbo threw herself at Nick, and he caught her. Rosalie looked for the ladies' room.
”Mona, this is a friend of mine, Rosalie. Lee, this is my cousin Vinny's wife, Mona.”
Lee? ”Nice to meet you.” Mona shook her hand and gave her the once-over. Rosalie didn't mind, since it turned out to be a ”Is she good enough for our Nick?” and not a ”What's she doing with my Nick?” kind of inspection. She could tell Mona liked the shoes, wondered if the b.o.o.bs were real, and if she dyed her hair. Mona's came straight from a bottle of peroxide.
Mona gave her the sisterhood look, the one designed to make you spill juicy gossip on your first trip to the ladies' room. Rosalie returned the smile and looked around for a back door to the place. She'd never be able to pull off an escape via the ladies' room with this one in front.
”Mona, tell Vinny we're here. We'll grab a table in the back.”
”Tell him yourself. He's in the kitchen. Antonio's got the flu, and Vinny's cooking.”
Nick had his annoyed look on. It seemed to have no effect on Mona, but it had the same effect on Rosalie it had earlier, even when aimed at someone else. d.a.m.n.
”Mona Constantina DiNicola.” Nick pulled the full name gambit, which most often worked, if for no other reason than force of habit.
”Okay, but you owe me, Nick.”
”No way. You're still paying up for the Rita incident.”
Mona headed to the kitchen, and Nick steered Rosalie into the dimly lit bar.
”The Rita incident? Sounds intriguing,” Rosalie said as Nick shuffled her past bar stools and quiet booths.
”Just the opposite. It was a nightmare blind date to her sister's wedding.”
”Oh, man, she'll be paying for life.” Italian weddings sometimes lasted the entire weekend, and you can't escape. ”You have my sympathies.”
Nick took her hand on the other side of the bar and ushered her into the small dining room beyond. One used for private parties. Small, quiet, and empty. Frank Sinatra crooned in the background; the lights were low and the feeling intimate. She turned and took in the scene he'd set. He scored points for romance but lost a few for lack of originality.
<script>