Monster in His Eyes (Monster in His Eyes 1)

"Say you'll be ready in thirty minutes."

"Now?" I ask incredulously.

He wants to take me to dinner right now?

"Why not?" he asks. "No better time than the present."

I can name plenty of times better than now… times that don't include me wearing Oscar the Grouch pajama pants and fuzzy pink slippers, my hair a scraggly ball on top of my head. "I don't know."

"I'll tell you what," he says. "In half an hour, I'm going to pull up at the entrance to the parking garage, right where I dropped you off. If you're there, I'll take you wherever you want to go. If you're not, I'll go on my way."

Before I can respond, the line goes dead, my phone beeping. Call ended. I stand there, hesitating, contemplating, before turning around. Once again I don't give myself a chance to talk myself out of it. I switch the stove off, leaving the pot of freshly boiling water on the burner as I bolt from the kitchen and sprint to the room.

Thirty minutes. That's all I have.

I tear through my closet, throwing clothes around as I search for something to wear, pulling shirts off hangers and holding them up in front of the mirror before tossing them aside. I blast through everything I own, demolishing my side of the room in less than five minutes, putting Melody's mess to shame.

I move from my closet to Melody's, taking a deep breath before diving in. Her clothes are trendier than mine, more revealing… more her and hell of a lot less me. I shift through what's hanging up before scouring through her drawers, changing a few times before settling on a black long-sleeve sweater dress I fish out of the back of the closet.

It'll have to do, because I'm down to fifteen minutes. I let my hair down, running my fingers through it. It's wavy from being up all day, but there isn't anything I can do to straighten it. I swipe lip gloss across my lips and put on a coat of mascara, barely having time to spritz myself with perfume before slipping on my boots.

Sitting on the bed, I glance at the clock and tense. Time is up already.

I practically sprint out, taking the elevator downstairs and jogging outside, breathing heavily by the time I round the corner to the parking garage. My footsteps falter, and I pause when my eyes come into contact with the sleek black Mercedes idling there.

Something inside of me soars, the butterflies taking flight, like they'd just discovered their wings for the first time. My feet move again as the driver's side door opens and Naz steps out. He's wearing another suit, all black with a blood red tie, my eyes drawn to the pop of color on his broad chest.

Naz strolls to the passenger side, opening the door for me.

The stories got it right, I see.

Prince Charming has manners.

I offer him a smile, trying to get myself under control as I slip into the seat, taking a deep breath when he walks around to get back in. He hesitates, his hand on the gearshift, as his gaze sweeps along me. I can feel my body flush from the attention and curse my lack of makeup… I know my nervousness is written all over my face.

He meets my eyes, his blue ones bright, twinkling with satisfaction. He says nothing about it, though, turning away to put the car in reverse.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks, easing into traffic.

"Anywhere," I say. "Wherever you go."

"You sound uncertain."

"I guess I do."

My response makes him laugh.

"I just have no preference," I explain. "I was going to eat Ramen noodles tonight, so anything is an upgrade from there."

"Why would you eat that?"

"Because that's all I had in the room," I say. "And besides, they're not so bad. They cost like, twenty cents. You can literally survive off them for a dollar a day."

He cuts his eyes at me, looking not nearly as impressed by that as I am.

"Have you tried them?" I ask curiously.

"No," he says. "Can't say I've ever had the pleasure."

"I'll have to make you some."

He raises his eyebrows, regarding me peculiarly. "I'll hold you to that, but not tonight. I'm taking you out instead. You can treat me another time to your gourmet noodles."

I'm so embarrassed I can feel my face heating. What's wrong with me, babbling to this man about freaking Ramen noodles? I want to slink away, disappear into the cool leather seat and never again resurface. "Just ignore me. I'm an idiot."

"No, you're not. You're just nervous."

"That obvious?"

"I'm just good at reading people. It kind of comes with the territory."

"What territory?"

"Work."

"And what is it you do for work?"

"A little of this, a little of that," he responds. "I'm a freelancer."

I stare at him. That didn't answer my question at all.

He cuts his eyes at me again, and my confusion must be easy to see… or maybe he just is that good at reading people… because he chooses to elaborate for me.

"Let's say a company needs something done… like, say, they're downsizing and need to fire people. Some of them choose to bring in someone else to do it, so they don't have to do the dirty work themselves. They like to keep their hands clean. So they hire an independent contractor, someone with expertise, to handle it for them."

"And what's your expertise?"

"Dealing with people," he says. "Finding things."

As soon as he says it, it takes me back to Santino's classroom and the words I heard that afternoon. 'I know what you're here for.'

"What were you looking for from my philosophy professor?"

A legitimate look of surprise crosses across his face that he wipes away just as quickly. He doesn't answer, shaking his head after a moment as his focus remains on the road. "I can't talk about my work."

Fair enough.

He takes me to a restaurant near Central Park, the kind where you have to make reservations weeks in advance. I've never been—I don't think even Melody has been, the atmosphere too rich for even her upscale tastes—but I've heard of the place. Naz valet parks the car and I get out, glancing around nervously, feeling severely underdressed even in a dress.

I start to point out to Naz that we'll never get a table here when he leads me inside, past couples waiting. The hostess looks up. "Do you have a reservation, sir?"

"No."

"We're fully booked for the night," she says, flipping the page in her reservation book as if double-checking. "Rest of the week, too."

"Do me a favor," he says. "Run and tell the chef that Vitale sends his regards."