Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 28

The restaurant is high–end and low–lit, with white tablecloths, a string quartet playing in the corner, and waiters who don’t blink unless tipped.

We’re seated in a private booth with red velvet cushions, and a bottle of Barolo has already been decanted.

Thane asks me.

“Please,” is the only reply I can manage while I stare in awe at the luxury surrounding me.

Once my glass is poured, he hands it to me, ensuring our fingers touch in the process. I sniff it like a critic on a reality show, before stating in mock sophisticated tone, “Oh yes, vintage ‘l–paid–way–too–much–for–this. Smooth on the sarcasm, and oaky in arrogance.”

Then I take a sip. And moan instantly, Fuck, that’s good.

The waiter returns with the appetizers Thane ordered for us artisanal bruschetta with whipped ricotta and roasted figs.

Once he leaves, I lean towards Thane and ask in a conspiratory voice, smirking, “Did this ricotta personally get its education in the Alps?”

“Switzerland, actually,” he deadpans, and I have no choice but to snort at his response.

For the next hour or so, we talk about what he does for a living he owns a Pharmaceutical and Biotech company that researches treatments for neurodegenerative diseases.

I tell him how the bookstore became mine–1 helped out after school during high school and part–time while in college. When the bookstore owner, a sweet 70–year–old man whose kids and grandkids forgot about him until they needed money, retired, he sold the bookstore to me. He doesn’t need to know I’m still paying Russell off monthly, which is luckily interest–free.

Every course is way overpriced but absolutely delicious. I refuse to tell him that, though. I wouldn’t want him to be able to say, “I told you so.” L might just stab him in the eye with my fork then.

I can’t stop staring. Which is deeply unfair, because I pride myself on being immune to ridiculous levels of male hotness.

But here he is–Mr. Tall, Dark, and Overbearing dressed in black from head to toe. His midnight black shirt clings to him like a second skin. With his suit jacket slung over the back of his seat, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, showing off those annoyingly veiny forearms, especially when he’s holding his knife while cutting his steak. Why’s that so sexy?

And worst of all, the smug bastard knows precisely what he’s doing.

“Are you going to keep undressing me with your eyes, or are you planning to use your hands later?” he asks in a voice that’s smooth sin wrapped

in velvet.

throw if he gets any cockier. “Actually, I was imagining how much you’d cry if you spilled

I scoff, grabbing my wine glass like I need something to th

wine on those pants. Armani?”

He smirks before answering, “Custom.”

Rolling my eyes, I retort, “Of course they are.”

The restaurant is warm, dim, elegant, and clearly expensive. Crystal chandeliers hang above us. The quartet has packed up, and now a pianist is playing soft piano music from the baby grand in the corner. It’s the kind of place where walters don’t speak unless spoken to, and the water glasses never drop below three–quarters full,

s–like I’m the event, not the

I feel out of place. Not because of my little black dress, but because I’ve never had a man look at me like he does- gbest.

place?” I ask as I take a bite of my p

pasta, which is so delicate it probably requires a PhD to make.

Thane leans back in his seat, his fingers tapping the stem of his glass like he’s trying to distract himself from devouring me. “I wanted to give you something you deserve.”

“Dinner and a show?” I ask as I quirk a brow at him.

And I hate how that lands in my chest like a sucker punch. Because underneath all my sass, my sarcasm, and my absolute conviction that he’s some wealthy mistake, I like being here with him.

I like how he watches me when I talk, as if my words are scripture. I like that he doesn’t push, even though his whole being hums with restraint at wanting to push.

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