Holding back a sigh, I said, “Of course she is.” That’s Alfa Ro-may-o for those of you reading it like Romeo and Juliet. Because this isn’t that kind of story, yo.
Ezra held the door open for me and I sobered a little as I slid onto buttery leather. He climbed in a second later and handed me my purse.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t know why I’m still holding onto it.”
“Clearly you want a restaurant called Molly,” I teased. “You’re trying to steal my identity after all.”
He stared at me, his eyes shrewd and investigative. I stared back, brave with liquid courage and unafraid of what he would find. Although I didn’t know what he was looking for or why he was suddenly being nice to me.
“It does have a nice ring to it.” Just one side of his mouth lifted. “Or maybe I would call it MM. M’s? Maverick? The thing about you is that there are just so many possibilities.”
Sliding my tongue over my dry bottom lip, I didn’t know what to make of this sudden sense of humor. “Maverick sounds like a sports bar and that doesn’t really seem like your type.”
“You say that, but you don’t really know what my type is, do you?” Before I could respond, he turned back to his new car.
The car purred to life, rumbling and growling, and making all kinds of sounds I’d never heard a car make before. He expertly reversed out of the alley and then went forward into the flow of traffic. For a few minutes, I just listened to the hum of the engine and wondered if I would henceforth compare all other cars to this one—which was clearly setting me up for a very disappointing life.
Or a future as a stripper.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t know where I’m going.”
I gave him directions to my apartment complex and settled back into the comfort of the passenger seat. The radio hummed very softly with music I didn’t recognize and could barely hear. Mostly the car was filled with the sound of the engine zipping through traffic or purring at stoplights.
I should have been spitting fire at this man that had so completely insulted everything about me earlier tonight. But alcohol and my friend’s future wedded bliss had made me soft and culpable. So instead of wrapping Ezra in my deadly web and then biting his head off for a midnight snack, I closed my eyes and let myself feel gratitude.
“Thanks again, Ezra,” I said sincerely. “The party was a major success. Lilou was perfect. Meg is a genius. And you already know that Wyatt is the best. You did a pretty great job of swooping in to save the day.”
Of course he picked up on my change in attitude right away. “Are you being nice?”
I tilted my face toward him and frowned at his profile. “I blame the alcohol.”
His lips twitched but I couldn’t be sure if it was because of an almost smile or if he’d developed a facial tick. There was a good possibility he was about to have a stroke. “Me too,” he said.
Not knowing what else to say after that, we both fell silent. I turned in my seat so I could stare out the window, but the streetlights cast a glare and I ended up staring at Ezra’s reflection instead.
From where I sat I could see the faint stubble that had appeared along his jaw, equally as black as the hair on his head. His sharp nose that looked like cut marble in the window reflection. His high cheekbones and long throat. Those masculine shoulders that were so ferociously broad before his torso thinned to a tapered waist. He could have so easily been a model in a different life. Or maybe even this one still. Depending on how the restaurant biz turned out for him.
He drove with pure confidence, weaving in and out of late night traffic like he moonlighted for NASCAR. He commanded the car in the same way I imagined he handled all things in life—with total control and determination. And he never once lost his concentration to look at me.
He didn’t just do things. He conquered things.
All the things.
He was too much for me. Too sure of himself. Too successful. Too self-possessed.
Too manly.
Too way, way, way out of my league.
By the time he pulled up in front of my apartment complex, I had stopped breathing altogether. Nerves ran in panicked circles inside my chest, forever bumping into each other as they tried and failed to settle. I pictured them with their hands in the air and their mouths wide in desperate concern. Abort, abort! They screamed. Run for the hills!
As if I could just jump out of Ezra’s car, ninja-roll into the bushes and live the rest of my life foraging in the Appalachians. Pretty sure that was a future 60 Minutes cautionary tale in the making.
Ezra put the car in park and hovered his hand around the ignition. “Can I walk you inside?”
“Please don’t!” Waving him off, I said, “I got this. I’m just up…” I pointed in the general direction of the sky.
“Do you have everything?” he asked.
I wiggled my feet and tapped my purse in my lap. “Yep.” My hand slid over the door until I found the handle.
“Molly,” Ezra stalled me with just that one word—with just the way he used it.
I half turned to face him. For the first time in our entire acquaintance, I saw hesitation and maybe even uncertainty.
“What you said about my website… I’m just wondering… Maybe if you have time… I would be willing to pay you if you would take a look at it again.”
My pulse skipped as I stared at him in an effort to decipher if he was serious or not. Even if I didn’t have the Black Soul project right now, who would want to work with a restaurant owner that had no misgivings about calling you names and insulting your taste? No thanks. That initial five minute interaction pretty much ruined any and all future work-related collaborations between the two of us.
And hopefully all the non-work-related collaborations as well.
This was what happened when I was nice. I should know better than to be nice.
I prepared a professional excuse in my head, something about a new project and not having the focus for him. But what came out was unfiltered truth instead. “Ezra, that’s a terrible idea.”
“It’s not,” he insisted, not even phased with my answer, almost like he’d anticipated it. “I’m surrounded by ‘yes’ people. Save for Killian and Dillon, I have nobody willing to tell me the truth. They’re all afraid of me.”
I shouldn’t have laughed. Really. He was being open and honest and… open and honest. But the look on his face was like the businessman equivalent to a three year old’s pout.
After I laughed, he looked less adorable. It was more like the businessman’s equivalent of a murderer.
“Molly.”
He said my name and I shivered. I blamed the weather, the leather seats, and the full moon. “I’m afraid of you,” I told him. “Just not tonight because of, you know, the champagne.” He opened his mouth and I quickly added, “And getting me drunk every time I have to work with you is not an option. This isn’t normal for me. I’m usually very responsible.”
“Two Advil, two Tylenol.”
“What?”