Page 30 of Precious Hazard

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”

I watch her lower herself onto the chair, crossing her leg over her opposite knee. The washed-out skinny jeans hug her delicate curves like a second skin. Her simple navy-green collared shirt is tied into a knot at her navel. The top two buttons are undone, showing a sliver of her lacy bra underneath, the color of which matches her outer layer. Other than two giantgolden hoops in her ears that remind me of a fortune teller at the fair, I don’t see any sort of jewelry on her.

No hair accessories this time, either. Her long, dark mane is left loose in a silky veil hanging more than halfway down her back. There’s so much of that gorgeous, wavy mass that it simply defies logic. More hair on this one woman’s head than I would have imagined, enough for at least five people. The sight of all those tresses is making the tips of my fingers itch. The urge to reach out and touch her hair again is overwhelming. To wrap the thick cord of it around my wrist, squeeze the ends in the palm of my hand as I tilt her head back and plunge—

“Why are you staring at me, DeVille?”

“You should tie your hair back,” I grumble, quickly taking a seat across from her. “It looks wild.”

She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Do I look like I give a fuck about how you see me?”

Nope. Then again, even with her massive hoop earrings, no makeup, and entirely casual outfit, she looks beautiful. Fuck!

“I need to be back in the office in a couple of hours. Let’s order.” I grab the menu from the center of the table, where it was left for us. “I assume you don’t read Italian, so I’ll translate for you.”

“No need. I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries, and a side of ketchup.” She grins.

I glare at her over the menu. “This is an authentic Italian restaurant. The owners run things here the same way they did back in Tuscany. They don’t serve cheeseburgers. Or fries. And most certainly, no ketchup.”

Her smile widens. “I know. I did my research on what Italians consider the biggest food-related faux pas.” Her eyeslight up with a mischievous glow. “I want a large cappuccino, too.”

I sigh. “It’s past noon. Cappuccino isn’t offered after eleven. Choose something else.”

“Nope. I want arealcappuccino.”

“Well, you’re not getting one. It’s considered bad for your digestion to have milk-based drinks after lunch. Ordering one could be viewed as uncivilized.”

Tara sets her elbows on the table and leans forward, placing her chin on her clasped hands. “Don’t tell me the omnipotent Arturo DeVille can’t order whatever and whenever the hell he wants, social and cultural rules be damned.”

I tighten my hand around the menu and take a deep breath.

While I’m struggling to remain calm, the owner of the restaurant approaches. An older man wearing a black apron over his crisp white shirt and dark slacks. He fidgets with his hands as he stands expectantly next to our table.

“Signor DeVille.” He bows his head, speaking in rapid Italian. “We are so honored to have you as our guest again. May I offer you today’s specials? Or perhaps you’d like—”

“Bistecca alla Fiorentinafor me,” I cut him off. “And a cheeseburger for the lady.”

“Certainly. I’ll have the chef— Apologies. Um. I think I may have misheard. The lady would like…?”

“Cheeseburger,” I say through my teeth. “And fries with ketchup on the side.”

The proprietor blinks at me, his facial features pulled into a slight grimace. “I… Well, um… I’m so terribly sorry, but we don’t have ketchup, Signor DeVille.”

“Then have someone go buy it.” The thick paper of the menu crumples in my hand. “And the lady also wants… a damn cappuccino.”

“Of course.” The man nods. “Absolutely.”

Once the stunned owner retreats, I glance back at my future wife. Her lips are pursed as she pouts into the phone in her outstretched hand, just as she’s done during every other “date” we’ve gone on in the past few weeks. I pretended not to give a fuck about what she was doing then. Just as I refrained from commenting every time she added heaps of salt and pepper to her food. Once, she ground so much pepper onto her dish, she ended up coughing from the abundance of spice. But I didn’t care. Not then, not now. Her shenanigans don’t concern me in the least.

She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, tilts her chin up, and pouts into the camera again. Snapping pictures. For what? To send them to someone? Sienna maybe? Or… to another man? Surely she wouldn’t be sending pictures to some guy while having lunch with me? Whatever. I don’t care. I DO NOT—

Pout. Smile. Air kiss.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

“Taking a selfie.” She uses her free hand to open the collar of her shirt further. “I’m still building my following. Need my content to be more engaging.” A flip of her hair sends a waft of air carrying the scent of strawberries in my direction.

“Following?”