“Nice to meet you,” Bradley said to the table when he and Mickey finally disconnected.
Mickey seated himself, his eyes coming to me, and when they did, it felt like they were skewering me.
He was angry, plain to see.
But I couldn’t imagine how that could be.
“What?” I mouthed silently, gaze on Mickey.
His eyes dipped, came up to catch mine and they narrowed.
He was communicating, I just didn’t know what he was saying.
“What?” I mouthed again, leaning forward a little to put emphasis on my soundless word.
“Amelia?” Bradley called.
My body gave another jolt and I looked up at him to see him watching me closely.
“Yes?” I asked, trying to pretend he hadn’t just caught me mouthing to Mickey.
“Would you like to go to our table or chat with the Donovans?” he asked politely, but a little stiffly.
“We should probably go to our table,” I replied and looked to Mickey’s family, concerned to see Aisling had righted in her seat, this meaning she had her back to Bradley and me, which was impolite for a girl who was never that way. “Wish list, kiddo. Tomorrow. Noon,” I said Cillian.
“You got it,” Cillian replied, still smiling.
“Aisling,” I said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
She glanced up at me swiftly and then away, muttering, “Good to see you, Amy.”
I braced and looked at her father. “Mickey.”
“Amy,” he replied, drawing his brows together and again dipping his eyes before they came back to mine.
I had no opportunity to make a further fool of myself by soundlessly demanding to know what Mickey was saying because Bradley drew me away.
When we got to our table, he pulled my chair out and I sat in it. Then he sat. And thankfully we did this, ordered drinks and received them, all without incident.
We were perusing our menus when I looked across the three tables that separated us and saw Bradley’s back was to the Donovans, but Mickey’s side was to me and his head was turned my way, his complete attention on me.
And I could tell he was still angry.
Very angry.
That was when I had my first inkling I was in trouble.
He jerked his head in an aggressive manner that irked me.
Chancing a glance at Bradley, who was studying his menu, I looked back to Mickey, tipped my head to the side and flipped out a hand in my non-verbal, “what?”
He lifted a hand and jabbed a finger my way, tipping it slightly down, then up, then moving it to touch it to his chest.
Oh God.
Did I have something on my dress?
I looked down instantly and saw all was clear.
I lifted my head, snapped my brows together, and after another click glance at Bradley, who was still examining his menu, I looked back at Mickey and again flipped my hand out.
Her jerked his head in that aggressive way again but not toward me, in another direction.
I looked in that direction and saw there was a door to a hallway, above which it had a sign that read “Restrooms.”
I looked back to Mickey’s table to see he was no longer there. He was up and prowling infuriatedly toward that door, looking insanely hot doing this in his sports jacket.
God, he was killing me.
“What looks good to you?” Bradley asked.
Mickey Donovan, I did not answer.
“I need a moment,” I said and his head came up, his eyes to me. “Just need to freshen up a bit. Do you mind?” I asked.
“No, Amelia,” he replied, his face getting soft. “Take all the time you need.”
He was a nice man.
And I was an idiot.
Even knowing that, it didn’t stop me from grabbing my clutch and shooting out of my chair perhaps a wee bit too swiftly for someone who’d just insinuated she might need to use the restroom but mostly she wanted to fix her lipstick.
Then I stormed across the restaurant to the hall and down it.
It was a long hall and at the end of it, another hall led off at a T with a sign that said “Restrooms” with an arrow pointing right, “Staff Only” with an arrow pointing left.
I went right, passing the men’s (why was the men’s room always first? irritating) and then the ladies’, heading to the very end of the hall where Mickey was standing, arms crossed on his chest, scowling at me.
I shoved my clutch under my arm, again lifted both hands, stomping his way, but this time I asked a verbal, “What?”
I arrived at him.
Then I was not in the hall but shoved into an alcove off the side, which was quite possibly a place where they put racks to hang coats during winter months but right then was a dark space totally removed from everything.
“Mickey,” I whispered, half in shock, half something else entirely.
“Uh…no,” he said infuriatedly and bafflingly.
“No, what?” I asked, staring up at him, not believing I was in a dark area removed from a restaurant where my date was, his kids were, and I was pressed against a wall by an aggressive, inexplicably angry Mickey Donovan.