Page 18 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

One week later

“Oh wow! A cozy family-run restaurant in the suburbs,” Tara comments, looking around as I lead her to my usual table in the far corner. It’s a secluded spot that’s mostly hidden from prying eyes, so I can dine in peace. At least, most of the time.

“Hmm, and here I was expecting you to take me to another ridiculous fine-dining establishment where my choices are ‘Beluga caviar this’ or ‘something, something in white truffle sauce that’. God, I think I’ve had enough gourmet cuisine in the past week to last me a lifetime.”

“Exquisite flavor and aroma aren’t reserved exclusively for fine dining. Besides, everyone knows that there’s only one way to leave a place like that.” I glance at her while pulling out her chair. “Hungry.” Giving her a nod, I clear my throat. “And, they emphasize a certain dress code.”

“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 giant golden 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 eyes light 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 a real cappuccino.”

“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 Fiorentina for 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?”

“On Instagram. Did you know that photos where I’m pouting get ten times more likes and comments than if I smile? See?” She turns her phone toward me.

I stare at the image of Tara in a skin-tight black minidress. With a champagne flute in her hand, she’s leaning back against the banister. Her chin is tilted to the camera, and her sinful blood-red lips are pursed as if she’s blowing a kiss.

“Delete that thing,” I growl as a zap of electricity shoots straight to my cock. “Now.”

“Don’t tell me you’re exactly like my savage brother, as you refer to ‘our lot.’ Do you have a problem with me being on social media just like Drago did with Sienna? Did you know that he actually got her account shut down? You would never lower yourself to that same barbaric level, would you?”

My left eye starts twitching.

“I guess not. So, hey, when they bring our meals out, don’t start eating right away. I wanna take a few shots. Pictures of food are almost as popular as the ones of me pouting.”

“Showing off what you eat online so a bunch of people you don’t even know can comment seems beyond idiotic to me,” I grumble. Still, that’s infinitely better than having sexy photos of her online for countless horny men to ogle and drool over what belongs to me.

I hate the idea of agreeing with my brother-in-law’s actions, but I need to find out how he managed to kill Sienna’s social media account.

Because I have to do the same for my soon-to-be bride.

Without her realizing my involvement, of course.

The last thing I want is for her to think I’m jealous or something.

It’s simply common decency. I can’t allow the Cosa Nostra’s second lady, for all intents and purposes, to saturate the internet with provocative photos of herself, now can I?

Thankfully, she was appropriately dressed.

Well, at least in the picture she showed me.

Wait.

What if she’s posted nudes, too?

My blood pressure skyrockets.

“Your newspaper, Signor DeVille.” The waiter sets a folded New York Times on the table for me. As I’ve been a regular patron here for years, the owner is well aware that I like to browse the news while I dine.

Picking up the paper, I open it to the financial section, hoping that the latest on the markets will distract me from my current train of thought.

“Good God, DeVille. Are you for real?” The woman living rent-free in my gray matter laughs. It’s an annoyingly sexy sound.

I clench my jaw. “What?”

“An actual fucking newspaper? What are you, ninety? Hasn’t anyone told you that everything is online these days?”

“I’m not interested in clickbait journalism.

Our world has become addicted to digital content.

Some call it ‘news,’ but most of it is garbage.

The widespread dissemination of misinformation will likely lead to the downfall of our society.

And I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from cursing in public. ”

She snickers again. It comes out sounding like a purr. Seductive. Smooth. Like a stroke of her tongue against my own.

“Okay. I just have to know one more thing.”

I turn the page to the overview of stock prices. “I’m listening.”

“Do you wear drawers under your breeches? You know, those thermal long johns to keep your kidneys warm. In the era you think you live in, it was considered scandalous to leave your home without them.”

The newspaper tears along the center fold, leaving two tattered halves dangling from my fisted hands. I pin Tara with a glare while fuming at her audacity. Meanwhile, she’s giggling like a total nutjob, pressing her hands over her mouth and struggling to properly breathe.

Damn her.

She’s being ridiculous. And cute.

The corner of my mouth quivers. Then, completely against my will, it quirks upward.

“Since we’re on the subject of my clothes, you haven’t returned my jacket,” I deflect, hoping this reminder will cause her to stop laughing because it’s proving to be annoyingly contagious. “I want it back.”

“Yeah, sorry. I kept forgetting at first, but then I decided to wash it. I was taught to always return whatever I borrow, cleaned. And, well, I left it in the dryer.”

I stare at her. “You washed it?”

“Don’t worry. I threw it in the delicate cycle.”

She put my Ermenegildo Zegna jacket in a washing machine . Perfect.

“Now I wish I remembered to grab it.” She shudders and wraps her arms around herself. “It might have come in handy. You Italians do seem to like keeping things on the chilly side.”

“It’s not that cold in here.”

“I like to be warm.”

She likes to be warm. Great. Inwardly groaning, I get up and shrug off my jacket. Tara watches me with awe as I take a couple of steps and drape the garment over her shoulders. Her eyes flare as I bend and bring my face to hers. “No washing this one. Got it?”

“Yup.”

“Good.” I resume my seat and get back to my newspaper. The left half of it, that is.