Page 66 of Sweet Venom

My steps slow, and I watch Mario under the half-broken lamps. “Have you always stalked for him?”

“No. I’m a bodyguard, actually.” He sounds offended. “Special Forces trained.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah. It’s Jude’s.” I grin but clear my throat when he doesn’t show a reaction. “How was he when he was young?”

“Quiet, withdrawn, and prone to bursts of violence.”

“So just like he is now?”

“Pretty much.”

“Was he close to his mom?”

“Yes and no.”

“What…does that mean?”

Mario says nothing, signaling that the conversation has ended, and the rest of the long walk is spent in silence.

Once we reach the place in which I’m meeting my date, Mario retreats to the shadows.

The restaurant is one of those trendy, dimly lit places—low-hanging bulbs, sleek black tables, and the scent of rosemary and charred steak clinging to the air.

Soft jazz hums through invisible speakers, blending with the murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of wineglasses. The walls are lined with bottles of expensive liquor, polished to a shine, reflecting the golden glow of candlelight.

It’s warm, inviting, just like my date Toby, who waves me over from a table near the window, grinning wide.

I slide my glasses up my nose, touch my wrist tattoo, then walk up to him.

I’m self-conscious when I remove my denim jacket, revealing the blue satin camisole Dahlia lent me. It stops right at the waist of my pants, its spaghetti straps barely holdingit in place, and the lace at the collar doesn’t do a great job of hiding my cleavage.

I don’t do dates that much, mainly because I don’t have the time or energy, but Toby is nice, and he’s often helped me with school material.

He asked before if we should meet up for a movie or dinner sometime, but I brushed him off. A few days ago, however, I was annoyed, so when he asked again as we were leaving a summer class, I said yes without overthinking.

Toby is 6’ tall with curly blond hair and soft features. He also wears glasses, though his are gold-rimmed, and he’s dressed in a button-up shirt and smart casual slacks.

Today, his hair looks shiny, his hazel eyes brighter than usual as he swipes a look over me, pausing at my breasts before focusing on my face.

“I’m glad you made it, Vee. I ordered some wine. Would you like some?” Even his voice sounds mellow, welcoming, nothing like the gruff grumbles of a certain someone?—

No.

This isn’t about him in any shape or form.

I smile at Toby and think about ordering ginger ale, but then just go for wine as well so as not to seem rude.

As we wait for food, Toby slides both elbows on the table, leaning his chin on his interlaced fingers. “God. You look stunning.”

“Um. Thanks.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You look great yourself.”

It’s just words. Empty words. On paper, someone like Toby is my type. Softer-spoken, smart as hell, and just…not threatening, whether in looks, voice, or personality.

On paper, that is.