Not My Neighbor by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Nine

Krystal

Blake’s so busy telling me how good I look that I barely have enough time to even try and compliment him. Not that he needs it.

The man fills any clothes so well, but they’ll always play second to his own handsome good looks and his rugged charms.

I almost faint when he takes my arm like a real life prince charming, casually letting me know we’re off to the fanciest restaurant in town.

I want to protest and tell him I’ll at least pay for dinner, but apart from still only having a hundred dollars to my name I know he wouldn’t hear of it.

The least I can do is insist on driving us there when he suggests we get a private car so I don’t have to drive.

Neither of us drinks, I discover so there are no problems with me driving. Except for maybe these heels, and trying to focus on the road.

There’s something about a handsome man in a black suit and crisp white shirt. Gets me every time. And Blake sets a new standard that I know nobody else could match let alone beat.

The valet at Fellini’s takes care of my dad’s car once we arrive and in moments we’re seated. The waiter giving Blake a strange look as he looks from me to him then back to me again.

The waiter shakes his head, smiling and Blake makes a low sound of disdain as he starts to move away after giving us our menus.

I ask Blake if everything’s alright and with an effort he composes himself, telling me he’s fine. But I can clearly see he’s not.

Not having to even wonder if it’s me that’s upset him, I follow his eyes as they mark the waiter, narrowing with a look that would scare me if it was pointed at me.

“Blake? What’s the matter?” I try to laugh it off, but it catches in my throat.

“I just don’t like the way he looked at you is all, a place like this. He should know better.” Blake growls under his breath again.

It’s a full minute before he looks like his usual self, but it registers with me that there’s a side to Blake I don’t know. One that isn’t just talk.

Those muscles and his huge body, along with his strength could really hurt somebody.

“Are you going to eat with a scowl?” I ask him, still trying to keep it light, borrowing one of my dad’s favorite expressions.

From all those times I just sat at the dinner table and made a face instead of conversation when I was younger.

“Sorry, Krystal.” He apologizes. Bringing his hands up from under the table I can see the marks where his fingers have dug into his huge palms as he’s made two fists which he’s finally relaxing.

“Uh. This is all in French,” I tell him gently, confessing I have no idea what to order.

“Italian.” He smiles, correcting me but laughing with me, not at me.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” I ask. “You think paying so much they’d make it easier, not harder.”

Someone from the next table overhears me, an older woman who makes a tutting sound and rolls her eyes before whispering something to her even older looking husband.

“We can go someplace else if you want,” Blake says finally, looking like he thinks it’s a mistake to have come here.

“I didn’t mean that,” I tell him. “I just...” But I don’t finish.

I suddenly don’t feel hungry anymore and wonder how things could go from so great to so glum in a minute.

Blake’s expression changes when he seems to spot someone he knows, and with a casual gesture of his hand he calls over another waiter, speaking to him in a low tone.

The head waiter, I guess. He follows Blake’s eyes, and with a gasp he apologizes profusely, promising to serve us himself before disappearing.

Blake seems to relax, translating some dishes for me he thinks I might like.

“What was all that about?” I ask, carefully moving my eyes to point out the head waiter.

“Oh, just making sure that other asshole waiter gets what he deserves,” Blake says with a smile, sighing with contentment.

“What do you mean. Because he looked at me?” I ask, confused, some irritation hovering in my voice.

Blake shrugs, like a man who’s already dealt with a problem and has moved on.

“I don’t need you to do anything if somebody looks at me, Blake,” I tell him firmly, feeling my face flush with anger.

“I can speak for myself if I think someone is acting out of order,” I add, watching his smile shift to a grin at the corner of his mouth.

“Like you are with me now?” he says, cocking a brow, making my eyes narrow as I toss my napkin down onto the table, really mad now.

But his fascination only seems to grow.

He’s not apologizing for making me mad. He seems to almost be enjoying it. Practically getting off on it.

I’m just about to stand up and tell him where he can stick his fancy clothes and French-Italian restaurant when he gives me one of those commanding looks.

“Krystal, I won’t have another man, any man looking at you the way that waiter did. It’s a lot easier for him to get his ass kicked by his boss than by me,” he says, a matter of fact but with such finality that it actually takes the wind out of my sails.

Why would or should Blake even care who looks at me?

“Remember, what you said about being mine for the day?” he reminds me with a grin.

I open my mouth, trying to come up with something to stop him in his tracks like he’s done with me so many times since we met but I’ve got nothing.

I wonder how I’d feel if someone else looked at Blake in a way I didn’t approve of.

What would I do?

I’d be furious, truth be told.

I settle back into my chair and fold my napkin over my lap again.

“Is this what today’s all about? Having someone to dress up and act just how you want them to?” I ask, not meaning to sound short but there’s still some venom in my voice.

“Not at all, Krystal,” he says, leaning on the table with his elbows, his huge hands almost touching both of mine.

“I just want—” he starts.

“Apologies, Mr. Mason. I’ve sent Geoffrey home for the evening. Maybe he can think things over for the next few days before we have him serving our guests again. Please, accept our sincere apologies,” the head waiter says in a low voice but with such honesty and sincerity, I really do feel that this Geoffrey guy has done something terrible all of a sudden.

Unforgivable.

It seems to satisfy Blake though, and he thanks the waiter, ordering for us both.

I try to stay mad at him though. The whole attitude is so… so… Ugh! I don’t know, like someone who thinks they can get whatever they want just by clicking their fingers.

Or giving a certain look.

Maybe flashing that winning smile, creasing the little fold in his chin as he smiles.

Ah, who am I kidding? I can’t stay mad at him. If anything, watching him control things with so much certainty makes me like him even more.

Makes me wish I could be so commanding and assertive all the time.

By the time our first course arrives, and Blake tells me a story about the last time he was in Italy and was left behind when he missed his connecting flight, I’ve forgotten all about what happened with the waiter.

Forgotten all about how maddening he can be when he acts like such a boss, and here I am back to making little sounds when he speaks.

Feeling my eyes grow wide and my lip getting chewed by my top teeth when he looks at me a certain way.

The food’s amazing, with only the pasta course looking familiar to me, but it’s the company I’m really enjoying by the time we finish dessert and I turn down the offer of coffee.

“I’ll be up all night,” I protest, stifling a yawn and not because I’m bored.

I really am beat, and with so much food in me, I’m really am ready for bed.

“Maybe if I kept you up all night I really could have you to myself all day,” he says in a deeper tone that seems to set the tableware shivering as much as I am inside.

He raises a brow in a silent question, but smiling to himself he lets me off the hook. Leaving it there and calling for the check.

Like the new outfits, I know it’s pointless to even try and stop him from paying for a meal that looks more like a mortgage payment than dinner when I see him sign the receipt without a glance.

Adding a cash tip of more than what I have in my pocket as he folds the leather receipt holder closed, handing it back to our waiter.

“I can drive us back if you’re tired,” he suggests on the way back to the car, but I shake my head.

Not only is it dad’s car, but focusing on the road will keep me alert and maybe help stop me from wondering just what he means by ‘keeping me up all night.’

Hearing him say it. Repeating the phrase in my mind is the surest thing to keep me awake all night just thinking about him.

As if I wasn’t going to anyway.