Page 4 of Fixed (Spicy Bites #2)
FRANKIE
I stare at my reflection in the lobby mirror, finding a study in controlled panic. My wild curls are barely corralled into a half-hearted bun, and my perfectly applied lipstick is already chewed at the corners.
I pace the length of the Silver Spoon Inn’s lobby, pretending to admire the hydrangea explosion on the reception desk, but actually just trying to keep my heart from vibrating out of my chest as it thuds against my ribs. Every five seconds, I peek through the glass doors impatiently.
“You waiting for your fella?” chirps the desk clerk, a lady with fuchsia lipstick and an eclectic sense of fashion.
“I don’t have a ‘fella,’” I reply, a little too fast. “It’s a… business dinner. About my car.” Liar, liar pants on fire. Something is happening between me and the hot mechanic, but I’m afraid to actually give it a label.
“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t buy it for a millisecond. “You might wanna take a few calming breaths before you hyperventilate.”
She has a point. I’m wound tighter than a clock spring. I plop onto the velvet settee, cross my legs, uncross, and cross them again.
I glance up at the clock, then at the parking lot again. That’s when I see him.
He's in black dress pants that hug his thighs like they're custom-tailored, making his muscular legs look like they could snap tree trunks without breaking a sweat. His crisp black shirt stretches across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled precisely to mid-forearm, revealing tanned wrists and the edge of an intricate tattoo. His dark hair is combed back with just enough product to tame it, slicked at the temples where a hint of silver catches the light. It’s still touchably soft on top, suggesting effort that carefully masquerades as effortlessness.
There’s a glint of an expensive watch at his wrist, and every muscle on display looks cut from angry granite. I would not have pegged him for a dress-up type. I am, briefly, knocked so far off my axis that I forget to breathe.
But it’s the smell that hits first when he steps close. Something expensive, blue cedar and citrus, with an undercurrent of pure freaking yummy male. I practically have to grip the settee to keep my body’s response from embarrassing me.
The desk clerk glances over. “Well, damn,” she mutters, “that’s one hell of a fella you don’t have.” Then she immediately finds something urgent to do in the back office.
Seth’s eyes sweep the lobby, land on me, and he gives me an intimate smile that warms my body from the inside out. He strides over, stops at the edge of the carpet, and holds out his hand for me. As our palms make contact, I swear electricity arcs across the room.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says, leaning over to place a soft kiss on my cheek. My insides turn to mush as the lobby disappears around us.
Before I’m able to make too much of a fool of myself, Seth leads me out of the lobby.
The city hums around us as we stroll down the crowded sidewalk, weaving through the throngs of people.
Our steps come to a halt at a breathtakingly sleek, glossy black classic Mustang parked along the curb.
Its polished chrome gleams under the city lights, and I can't help but be in awe of its timeless elegance. Wow.
“Your car is beautiful,” I breathe as he opens the door for me.
“Thank you.” He smiles as I lower myself into the seat, and the heat of the leather sears through my dress.
Caught between his yummy scent and the warm Texas night, I bite my tongue to keep from muttering the truly filthy comment that instantly pops into my mind.
The interior is immaculate, all hand-stitched leather and brushed metal, and the dashboard smells faintly of something sweet and nostalgic.
He slides into the driver’s seat in one smooth movement, and the car rocks gently with his weight. When he fires the engine, the sound is a throaty growl that vibrates up through my feet.
The drive only takes a few minutes, but every second is loaded. Seth’s right hand manages the shift, and every time he reaches for it, his fingers brush my knee, sending an electric pulse up my thigh and straight to my core. I pretend not to notice, but my traitor skin turns hypersensitive.
Just to have something to say, I blurt out, “So, about my Fiat. Are you gonna tell me what kind of organ I’ll have to sell to pay for the repairs?”
He glances over, and his gaze lingers a microsecond longer than necessary. “We can discuss it after dinner.” Nope. I’m too keyed up to wait until after dinner. Plus, I might just jump his bones, and I want business out of the way first.
“I’d rather discuss it now.”
He cracks his knuckles against the wheel. “The engine’s shot. Radiator’s leaking everywhere. We can get it running, but it probably won’t stay running for very long.”
“Ouch.” Honestly, I was expecting as much.
He shrugs. “But we’ll figure something out.”
I huff out a laugh, mentally watching my savings dwindle. My determination to ignore my trust fund is going to be sorely tested. “Okay.”
He gives me a look that is half challenge, half promise. I look away first.
The town blurs past as I stare out the window.
The fancy bank screams insane wealth. There’s a cute flower shop, a coffee shop, and a dry cleaner run by someone’s retired grandma.
Seth drives past it all and takes a left, tires whispering on the hot asphalt.
Before I know it, we’re leaving Silver Spoon Falls and driving into the Halloween-obsessed town of Midnight Falls.
Seth eventually eases the car to a stop in front of a dimly lit building that resembles a mob front with its shadowy facade and mysterious aura.
The parking lot is bustling with cars, their headlights casting long shadows across the gleaming asphalt, and I'm hopeful that this crowd means the food is good.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, voice low.
I lift my chin as my stomach growls, answering for me. “I’m starving.” For food and maybe a taste of Seth.
He likes that answer. I can tell. There’s a pulse in his jaw, a slight tightness in the way his hand clenches the wheel.
He slides out, comes around, and opens my door. When he offers his hand, I take it, finding his warm and solid grip, and I realize I never want to let go.
We stand there for a second, the sun setting fire to the horizon behind him. The wind picks up, whips my curls across my face, and he moves a hand to tuck them back, sending my heart into overdrive.
His fingers brush my cheek, and I want to say something clever, something to take the edge off, but nothing comes.
So, instead, I follow him into the restaurant, pulse hammering, every sense dialed up to eleven.
I don’t know where this is going, but I’m going along for the wild ride.
Inside, Antonio’s is a whirlwind of old-world Italian charm.
The walls are packed with black-and-white photos of ancestors who seem as though they could be hiding from the law.
Fairy lights are strung across the room, and the scent—garlic and oregano, with a touch of woodsmoke—envelops me, reminding me it’s been hours since I snacked on that granola bar.
Before I can adjust to the mood whiplash, a man the shape and density of a Roman centurion bursts out of the kitchen. He’s got slicked-back hair, gold bracelets crowding one wrist, and a face that is all smile and mustache.
He shouts, “ Buona sera, signori !” like we’re part of his family.
I half-expect him to kiss both my cheeks, but instead, he just claps Seth on the back so hard the man physically rocks forward.
“Welcome in. Please, sit, sit!” Antonio gestures grandly to a cozy corner table, already set with gleaming silverware and a flickering candle.
Seth pulls out my chair with a smooth motion, his eyes never leaving mine as I settle into the plush seat.
Antonio beams at us, his charm infectious. “What may I bring you this fine evening?”
Seth glances over at me to ask, “Do you mind if I order for us?”
“Sure.” I’m usually a “choose my own” type of girl, but nothing seems “normal” when I’m with Seth.
He gives me an intimate smile and leans back casually. “Start us off with some bruschetta and a bottle of your best red wine, Antonio.”
I smile, realizing that’s exactly what I would’ve ordered. “Sounds perfect.”
Antonio claps his hands together once before darting off to the kitchen, leaving us in the warm glow of the restaurant. As the chatter of other diners surrounds us, I find myself studying Seth’s profile in the soft light.
“So, is this place a regular haunt for you?” I ask, trying to break the comfortable silence between us.
Seth chuckles, his gaze softening. “I come here every now and then when I need a break from reality. It’s a hidden gem.”
I smile, feeling a flutter of excitement at being included in his secret refuge. “I’m glad you decided to share it with me.”
Our conversation flows effortlessly as we wait for our meal, sharing stories and laughter like old friends catching up after time apart. The bruschetta arrives first, a tantalizing aroma of toasted bread and fresh tomatoes drifting toward us.
Antonio reappears with the bottle of wine, expertly uncorking it and pouring us each a glass with a flourish. We order our main course, and he disappears once more into the bustling kitchen.
The pasta arrives, and it’s nuclear with garlic, the aroma so strong it could kill a vampire at forty paces. My lamb follows, perfectly seared, the scent of rosemary cutting through the haze. I try a bite, and the flavor nearly buckles my knees.
“Holy freaking cow,” I mutter, unable to keep the reverence out of my voice.
Seth grins. “Told you it’s the best.”
We eat, the wine working its way into my bones. My limbs go loose, my thoughts a little blurrier at the edges. I lose track of time until I realize I’m staring at his hands again, the way they cradle the fork, the flex of his forearm when he cuts into the pasta. It’s hypnotic.
He catches my gaze. “You okay?”
I swallow hard. “Sorry. Was just… thinking.”
“About?”
I should lie. It would be safer. But the wine is making me reckless. “What’s happening between us.”
He sets down his fork, leans in, elbows on the table. “We’re getting to know each other, then we’ll move on to the next phase.”
My mouth goes dry. I pick up my wine and sip, but it doesn’t help. “The next phase?”
He sits back and stares into my eyes. “I’m still figuring that out,” he sighs, “but I can’t stop thinking about you, Frankie.” His jaw flexes, like he hates the admission. “You’re already under my skin, so I’m going to do something about it.”
I want to say something witty. Instead, all that comes out is, “Okay.”
He likes that. There’s a slow-burning satisfaction in his expression that turns my insides to mush. He reaches across the table, his fingers lightly stroking the back of my hand, and I forget to breathe.