Page 77 of Unforgiving Queen

My eyes met a set of dark blues.

Dante Leone.

Sculpted cheekbones. Blue eyes. Dark hair. And I felt nothing except irritation. His bad-boy persona might have attracted looks from women—sober and drunk alike—in his sinfully wrapped package, but it had zero impact on me.

“You’re half an hour late,” I gritted out, barely holding on to my temper.

“I said quarter to five.” Dante’s casual response was at odds with his tight voice. “I’m right on time.”

What. An. Asshole.

“Quarter to five isfourforty-five,” I hissed.

He ignored me, shifting over on his stool and waving the bartender over. “Bière Brune.” A dark beer.

“Coming right up.”

She batted her lashes, completely ignoring the fact that I was sitting next to him. I should have worn my signature color instead of this black pencil skirt and white blouse. It seemed appropriate considering this was a business arrangement.

“Americans and their weird ways of telling time,” he drawled.

A stool screeched along the grimy floor to my right. Glass shattered in the corner where what looked like a group of tourists were enjoying day-drinkingfartoo much. Laughter, cursing, and teasing filled the space to the brim.

And all it did was make the tension between Dante and me even more palpable. Was silence always this unbearable, or was it only this way around broody Italians?

The bartender leaned across and handed Dante his drink, giving him a full view of her cleavage.

He sat casually slouched against the bar, a glass dangling from his fingers. His eyes raked over her with a bored expression.

I finished the rest of my drink with a loud gulp, then cleared my throat to gain the attention of Dante’s groupie. “Can I get another, please?”

He’d just shown up but I already couldn’t wait to be curled up at home with a good book.

“Don’t go getting drunk on me, fiancée.” Phoenix was in love with Dante, that much was true, but I honestly didn’t know what she saw in him. Maybe the bad-boy appeal?

“It’s non-alcoholic,” I deadpanned just as my phone buzzed. I reached for my purse—at least that was in my favorite color—and dug it out. Just as I did, it lit up with a new text. Eager for a distraction, I read the messages that our group had going on.

My lips tugged up, realizing they were at Oba’s. It was the one thing I didn’t regret in the whole clusterfuck with Amon. The girls and I frequented Oba’s restaurant almost every week, and by the looks of it, Raven was making her karaoke debut.

“So what made you agree to meet me?” he asked, apparently skipping the small talk altogether.

I shrugged. “You asked.”

“I bet you’d rather someone else was in my spot.”

A lump of emotion clogged my throat, but I ignored the jab and said instead, “You’re right. I’d rather have my sister and friends here.”

His eyebrows shot up. “At least you’re honest about that.”

“If you prefer I lie, just say the word. It’s not exactly like you’re an open book.”

I wasawfulcompany right now.

He flashed a sardonic smile.

“But I bet you and your family have some dirty laundry.” I hid behind a frozen smile and guarded expression. In the distance, I heard the door open, and a prickle of awareness settled at the base of my spine. “I bet you, Reina Romero, are full of secrets.”

“Don’t give metoo muchcredit now,” I muttered dryly.