It’s thrilling to be wanted because a guy just likes me, not for what I can do for him or his family.
“Why don’t we stay in?” I suggest. “I can bring something.”
“Staying in’s cool,” he says. “But I’m asking you on the date, so it’s going to be my treat.”
“All right. I’m flexible.”
“So what do you like? Chinese? Thai?”
“Whatever. I’m good with spicy food.”
“Okay then.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“I’ll bring you your shirt, too.”
We agree on a time, and I hang up, saving his number to my contact list.
Our first actual date goes great, with Chinese takeout and cuddling with a romantic comedy movie on TV, and ends predictably with both of us sweaty and panting in bed.
The second date—which takes place the next day because I delayed my flight again—goes similarly, with me bringing some lasagna Uncle Salazar’s chef made. I’m not totally shameless, so I don’t take credit for it, passing it off as a friend’s mom’s.
“Marcella?” Dominic asks as I put the lasagna in the oven.
I choke back a laugh. “Marcella’s mom would rather die than work in a kitchen. And we’re all better off for that.”
The lasagna’s perfect, but then I’d be shocked if it weren’t. Uncle Salazar doesn’t pay for incompetence.
As lovely as our first two dates are, Dominic still seems to want to take me “out.” I resist pretty successfully over the next few weeks, except for one time when he suggests a hole-in-the-wall taco joint. He keeps trying to take me to the fancier places in the city, and I don’t want to be spotted by anyone I know. It’ll only lead to awkward questions. And if anybody blabs to Grandma Shirley…
I suppress a shudder.
She’s already getting suspicious over the continued delays of my trip to Italy. Not to mention she’s probably plotting a way to force me into doing what she wants—which is move into her mansion.
After a couple of weeks of clandestine rendezvous with Dominic, she summons me over to brunch at her place. It’s smaller than Uncle Salazar’s, but no less luxurious with polished stone, Italian tiles and citrus trees and a pool that nobody uses.
She’s already seated at the long table by the time I arrive. She’s impeccable as usual in a hunter-green dress, her hair shining like polished steel and pulled into a bun at the base of her frail neck. Despite her age, her skin is hardly lined and glows with liberal use of makeup, cream and medical technology.
As the head of the Pryce Family Foundation, she oversees all sorts of charitable causes the family champions. Unfortunately, her reputation is, well…ungracious…although fairly earned. I can’t think of a time when Shirley’s hard gray gaze hasn’t judged.
And I’m surprised to see her assistant Tolyan behind her. Well, not really an assistant, but you know… He isn’t her boy toy, either.
His tightly cropped sandy brown hair glinting in the morning sunlight, he stands military straight in a black suit and a crisp white dress shirt, no tie. He’s tall, built like one of those pro wrestlers with the broad shoulders and thick muscles. He moves like a jungle cat, but his pale blue eyes are barren and cold. It’s the kind of gaze Jack the Ripper must’ve had.
I don’t know his last name, and that has to be the least of what I don’t know about him. He’s always tight-lipped and secretive. I’m not exactly sure what his job is, but everyone calls him Grandma’s personal assistant…so I do, too.
Grandma is eating eggs Benedict, and the chef offers me the same. I know better than to ask for something else—Grandma doesn’t like it when I don’t go along with the menu, and I’m already on her shit list.
I pour a cup of strong coffee and stir in cream and extra sugar. I’ll need it to deal with what’s to come.
“I understand you’ve pushed back your trip again,” Grandma Shirley says, her voice as cool as a block of marble.
“Yes.”
“I thought whatever you had to do in Italy was too important to consider staying L.A. like I wanted you to.”
“It is.” I do my best to keep my answers short. Long, involved responses give too many bullets for Grandma to choose from.
Her gaze turns even harder. She loathes not being someone’s first choice. “Why the delay then?”