Eyes wide, I watch him carefully. The man lets go of me and turns to Naz, giving him a thumb's up before scampering away.
"You speak Italian?" I ask, surprised.
Naz picks up his wine. "I have a basic understanding."
"Well, what did he say?"
"He said you're lovely."
I'm taken aback. "And what did you say?"
"A lot," he says. "I thanked him for the table and complimented the wine. He's the owner, you see. He asked me how I was and who you were. I told him I was great and you were someone special."
I stare at him, those words sinking in. "Special?"
"Yes, special," he says. "Don't sound so surprised."
"It's just surreal. I keep waiting for this all to be a dream."
He takes a sip of his wine before setting the glass down and leaning closer, his gaze intense. "When I first laid eyes on you, I thought the same thing. How could I be so lucky as to encounter you, in a city so big? I thought I had to be dreaming."
"Because of me?" I can feel my face flushing. "But I'm just… me."
"You're special, Karissa. I mean that."
Our food comes and I take a bite of the pizza, the crust not too thin, the cheese just rich enough, and the sauce succulent. It's surprisingly delicious for coming from a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, and I now understand why Naz would come here. I devour it as Naz nibbles on a slice, conversation playful, as the wine seems to magically evaporate. POOF.
Before dinner is through, my head is fuzzy, my body tingling, the air between us buzzing like an electrical current.
"You ready to get out of here?" he asks as he once again counts out cash to pay the bill. I sneak a peek at it, curious, and am relieved to see it isn't nearly as much as the last time he took me to dinner.
"Sure." I swallow down the rest of my wine before setting the glass aside. He stands up and takes my arm, nodding in greeting to the waiter as we head for the door. People are still lingering outside, gathering in groups, waiting for tables. "Where are we going?"
He cuts his eyes at me as we cross the street toward the Mercedes. The sky is starting to darken, a pinkish hue shining down on everything. "Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere."
"That's not an answer."
"Anywhere with you."
He smiles. "That's a bit better."
Unsurprisingly, we go to his house. I expect him to take me upstairs, to pull me straight to his room like the last time we were here, but instead he flicks on the light to settle in downstairs. "You want to watch a movie?"
"Uh, sure."
"There are some DVDs in the den," he says, motioning toward a door past the living room. "Go ahead and pick one out."
Stepping the way he points, I head through the living room, my footsteps faltering right in the doorway to the den. It's only dimly lit from the windows, but I have enough light to see everything. The room is massive, possibly even bigger than the entire house I shared with my mother in Watertown. Unlike the rest of his place, which feels so modern and sterilized, the den is well lived in.
He spends all his time in here, I realize.
The furniture is black leather and well worn, the tables wooden matching the paneling of the walls. There seems to be a divider down the middle, a long trailing rug in shades of burgundy and black running from the doorway to the far wall, dividing it into two different spaces.
On one side there's a fireplace with half a dozen bookcases lining the wall, each one packed with books, a desk right in the center surrounded by chairs. It's an office and home library rolled into one. But on the other side of the divider is an entertainment center, one of the most elaborate I've ever seen, with a huge television and what looks like more DVDs than he has books. It's like a movie theater, set up in front of an array of furniture covered in pillows, cozy and welcoming.
My eyes bounce between the sections of the room. I feel like I just got a peek of Naz's soul.
It's a lot more complex than I anticipated.
I make my way over to the entertainment center and scan the movie titles. I recognize some, but most I've never heard of. He has a lot of foreign movies, a lot of black and white flicks, with a few cult classics thrown in. Not the typical action I expect to see, no Die Hard or Lethal Weapon, no Terminator or Rambo. On the same token, there aren't any chick flicks, either.
And they're all in alphabetical order. Weird.
I'm instantly curious about his books, wondering what a man like him reads, when I hear his footsteps behind me entering the den. I turn to face him just as he unknots his tie and slips it off, tossing it on the end table beside the black leather couch. His jacket is already gone, his shirt no longer tucked in, his shoes missing. He unbuttons his top two buttons before making work of his cuffs and pushing his sleeves up to his elbows.
Jesus, he looks sexy, still dressy but unshaven and unkempt. Ruffled physically, even if nothing can make him that way mentally.
"Find anything?" he asks as he approaches.
I turn back to the movies, sighing. "No Pretty Woman?"
"No." I can hear the smile in his voice. "I'm afraid not."
I scan the titles again as he walks up behind me, snaking an arm around my waist, and pulling me back to him. I relax into his touch, grasping his forearm as he leans down and kisses my neck. My eyes flutter closed, his lips soft and warm against my skin, sending tingles down my spine.
"Just pick something," he whispers. "I don't think we'll be paying it much attention, anyway."
His words prompt me to grab the first movie I see. I don't even look at the name. Naz puts it in and presses play as I settle in on the couch and pull off my shoes. He sits down beside me, relaxing, and wraps his arms around me.
He's right. I don't pay attention to the movie, and I don't know if he does, because I lie there and fall right asleep in his arms.
Darkness cloaks the room when I awaken, except for the soft glow of the television shining on me. It's dead silent, the movie over.
A black blanket covers me, soft and fuzzy, folded in around me like a child tucked into bed. My head is resting on one of the couch pillows, but there's no Naz anywhere to be seen.
Yawning, I sit up and stretch, glancing around, wondering where he disappeared to and how long I've been asleep. There's no clock in here that I've seen. How does this man keep track of time? Reaching for my purse, I sort through it and pull out my phone. Midnight.
I have two text messages from Melody, asking where I am, and a missed call from my mother hours ago. I reply to Melody so she doesn't worry, telling her I'm with an old friend and not to wait up, before putting the phone away and standing up.