What the Moon Made

NO RESERVATION

“Ms. Bennett.”

I turn slowly.

Theodore stands beside me.

Up close, the black shirt is worse.

Much worse.

The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing strong forearms and the dark lines of tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric. His hair is slightly less controlled than it was this morning, like he’s run his fingers through it a few times.

Not that I notice.

I’m simply observant.

It’s literally my job.

“Mr. De Luca.”

His eyes drop to the margarita in my hand.

“Enjoying dinner?”

I glance at the bowl of complimentary nuts in front of me.

“Immensely.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

Behind him, the hostess appears.

She’s smiling again.

That smile.

“Mr. De Luca, your table is ready.”

Of course it is.

The restaurant is completely booked for everyone except Theodore De Luca, whose table probably materializes the second his car enters the parking lot.

He doesn’t look at her.

His attention remains fixed on me.

“Give me a moment.”

Her smile falters.

“But your party is already—”

He raises one hand.

It isn’t rude.

It isn’t even dismissive.

It’s barely a gesture.

But she stops talking immediately.

Interesting.

Terrifying, but interesting.

Theodore nods toward the empty stool beside me.

“May I?”

I look at it.

Then at him.

“I thought your table was ready.”

“It is.”

“And yet you want to sit at the bar?”

“For the moment.”

His eyes move to the entrance.

Then back to me.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“No.”

The answer comes too quickly.

His eyebrow lifts.

I take another sip of my margarita.

“Yes.”

“Which is it?”

“I am waiting for someone. He just isn’t here yet.”

“He?”

I don’t know why one syllable sounds like an accusation, but it does.

“My boyfriend.”

Theodore goes very still.

It only lasts a second.

Maybe less.

Then his expression smooths into something unreadable.

“Your boyfriend.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t mention a boyfriend.”

“You didn’t ask.”

His gaze holds mine.

“No. I suppose I didn’t.”

The hostess is still standing behind him, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Mr. De Luca?”

He finally looks at her.

“Give the table away.”

Her eyes widen.

“Sir?”

“I won’t be needing it.”

I stare at him.

“What are you doing?”

He turns back to me.

“Sitting with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have dinner plans.”

“So do you, apparently.”

My cheeks heat.

“He’s running late.”

Theodore looks at the entrance again.

Then at the clock behind the bar.

“How late?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Twenty-seven minutes?”

I glance at my phone.

6:27.

I hate him.

“He’ll be here.”

“Of course.”

There’s something in his tone.

Something infuriatingly polite.

I narrow my eyes.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m sure he has an excellent reason for leaving you alone at a bar for nearly half an hour.”

“He didn’t leave me anywhere.”

“No?”

“No. I got here by myself.”

“An important distinction.”

“It is.”

His mouth twitches.

He’s enjoying this.

“Are you always this argumentative?” he asks.

“Are you always this intrusive?”

“Yes.”

At least he’s honest.

The hostess clears her throat softly.

“Should I release the table, Mr. De Luca?”

Before he can answer, I look at my phone again.

Nothing.

No missed calls.

No texts.

Not even the three dots that might suggest Kyle is alive and currently forming a sentence.

I call him.

Theodore watches me.

I turn slightly away.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

Voicemail.

I hang up before Kyle’s recorded voice can finish telling me to leave a message.

My stomach sinks.

Something isn’t right.

Kyle forgets things.

He gets distracted.

He loses track of time.

But he doesn’t usually disappear.

What if something happened?

What if he was in an accident?

What if he’s lying unconscious in a hospital while I’m sitting here getting irritated with him?

I unlock my phone and check for emergency calls.

As if hospitals send a special notification I somehow missed.

Nothing.

“Wilhelmina.”

I look up.

Theodore’s expression has changed.

The amusement is gone.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re worried.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you’re annoyingly observant.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What exactly is your occupation?”

His smile returns.

“Finance.”

I stare at him.

“That is the least convincing thing you’ve said all day.”

A low laugh leaves him.

It’s warm.

Unexpected.

And entirely too attractive.

The hostess is still waiting.

I look at her.

She looks at Theodore.

Theodore looks at me.

This is ridiculous.

“You should go to your table,” I tell him.

“Have dinner with me.”

I blink.

“No.”

“That was quick.”

“I have plans.”

“You had plans.”

“I still have plans.”

He glances pointedly at the empty stool beside me.

My irritation sharpens.

“He might be stuck in traffic.”

“He might.”

“Or his phone died.”

“Possible.”

“Or there was an emergency.”

“Also possible.”

“You’re being condescending.”

“I’m agreeing with you.”

“You’re doing it condescendingly.”

His eyes brighten.

“I didn’t realize agreement had a tone.”

“Yours does.”

Theodore leans slightly closer.

“Have dinner with me.”

The words are quieter this time.

Less like an invitation.

More like a decision he’s allowing me to believe I can make.

I should say no.

I’m here to meet Kyle.

Kyle could walk in at any moment.

And explaining why I’m tucked into a private booth with the man I interviewed this morning would be difficult.

Especially when the man looks like that.

But Theodore asked for a second interview.

I already agreed to meet him tomorrow.

Dinner could be the follow-up instead.

Professionally.

It would save time.

And I’m hungry.

Very hungry.

Hungry enough that the bowl of bar nuts is starting to look like a balanced meal.

I look at my phone one more time.

Nothing.

“I have my notebook,” I say.

Theodore’s gaze flicks toward my bag.

“Of course you do.”

“If I have dinner with you, it counts as the second interview.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“And what if I don’t agree?”

“Then I stay here and wait for Kyle.”

His jaw tightens at the name.

Barely.

So slightly I might have imagined it.

“Fine,” he says.

“Fine?”

“We’ll call it an interview.”

I study him.

“That was suspiciously easy.”

“I’m starving.”

Behind him, the hostess perks up.

“Wonderful. Right this way.”

Theodore holds out his hand.

I look at it.

Then at him.

“I can get off a barstool by myself.”

“I’m sure you can.”

His hand remains there.

I ignore it and slide off the stool.

My loafer catches on the metal footrest.

I stumble.

Theodore catches me around the waist before I can face-plant into his chest.

For one mortifying second, my hands press against him.

Solid.

Warm.

Very, very solid.

His arm tightens around me.

His face is close.

Too close.

His scent surrounds me again—dark, clean, and woodsy, with something wild underneath it that makes my pulse jump.

His eyes drop to my mouth.

I stop breathing.

“You were saying?” he murmurs.

I straighten quickly.

“I slipped.”

“Of course.”

“Your hand distracted me.”

“My hand?”

“It was unnecessarily hovering.”

Theodore smiles.

“Next time, take it.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“We’ll see.”

The hostess leads us through the restaurant.

Or, more accurately, she leads Theodore while occasionally glancing back to make sure I haven’t mysteriously disappeared.

We pass the main dining room and continue down a quieter hallway.

At the end is a private booth enclosed on three sides by dark wood panels. A small chandelier hangs above the table, casting everything in soft golden light.

It’s intimate.

Painfully intimate.

“This was your table?” I ask.

“One of them.”

“One of them?”

He slides into the booth.

I sit across from him.

“The restaurant keeps several tables available for private guests,” he says.

“Private or wealthy?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

A server appears before I’ve finished putting my bag down.

“Good evening, Mr. De Luca. May I bring your usual?”

“Yes.”

The server looks at me.

“And for the lady?”

Theodore answers before I can.

“She’ll have another margarita.”

I look at him.

“No, she won’t.”

His eyebrow rises.

“She’ll have water,” I tell the server.

“Sparkling or still?”

“Tap.”

The server hesitates.

Theodore looks amused.

“Tap is fine,” he says.

The server nods and disappears.

“You don’t have to look so entertained,” I say.

“I’ve never heard anyone order tap water in this restaurant.”

“I’m breaking barriers.”

“Clearly.”

I pull my notebook from my bag.

Theodore leans back.

“You were serious.”

“I’m always serious about my work.”

“I noticed.”

I click my pen.

“Good. Then let’s begin.”

“Shouldn’t we order first?”

“I can ask questions while we look at the menu.”

He doesn’t pick his up.

Instead, he watches me.

Again.

That intense, unwavering stare from his office returns, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything.

My hair.

My blouse.

The tiny bead of condensation sliding down my margarita glass.

The fact that his foot is only a few inches from mine beneath the table.

I open my notebook.

“What inspired you to start the De Luca Foundation?”

“My mother.”

I glance up.

The answer is immediate.

Sincere.

Different from the polished responses he gave me this morning.

“What about her inspired it?”

“She believed wealth was only useful if you did something worthwhile with it.”

I write that down.

“Is she involved with the foundation?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

His expression closes.

“She died when I was twenty-one.”

My pen stops.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t make it less painful.”

His eyes sharpen slightly.

“No,” he says. “It doesn’t.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then he gestures toward my notebook.

“Next question.”

I look down.

“Your foundation has expanded significantly in the last three years. What prompted that growth?”

“My family. What prompted you to become a journalist?”

“That isn’t the question.”

“It’s my question.”

“You’re supposed to answer mine.”

“I answered the first one.”

“Barely.”

“You asked what inspired the foundation. I told you.”

“And then redirected the conversation.”

“Answer me.”

I stare at him.

He waits.

There’s no awkwardness in his silence.

No impatience.

He simply looks at me like he already knows I’ll give in.

Which makes me want to do the exact opposite.

“I like stories,” I finally say.

“What kind?”

“Other people’s.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re interesting.”

“More interesting than your own?”

“Much.”

“I doubt that.”

“You know almost nothing about me.”

“I know you rewrite your questions when you’re nervous.”

I frown.

“You noticed that?”

“I notice everything you do.”

My pulse stutters.

He says it casually.

Like that isn’t a completely insane thing to say to someone you met this morning.

I glance down at my notebook.

“Well, stop.”

“Stop noticing you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I can.”

I look up again.

His eyes hold mine.

There’s no smile this time.

No teasing.

Something warm unfurls low in my stomach.

Dangerous.

I clear my throat.

“Your company recently acquired three properties downtown.”

“Four.”

“Four?”

“One hasn’t been announced.”

I immediately start writing.

“What is it?”

“A hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You just told me it exists.”

“I trust you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“That’s a terrible business practice.”

“It hasn’t failed me yet.”

The server returns with water and a bottle of red wine.

Theodore doesn’t ask what kind.

I assume it costs more than my rent.

Menus are placed in front of us.

I pick mine up and try not to react to the prices.

Eighty-five dollars for chicken.

It had better be a very accomplished chicken.

Theodore doesn’t open his menu.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m reading.”

“You stopped reading thirty seconds ago.”

I lower the menu.

“Why are you watching me?”

“Because you’re sitting across from me.”

“There are other things to look at.”

“None as interesting.”

Heat creeps up my neck.

He’s flirting.

Definitely flirting.

Theodore De Luca is flirting with me.

Unless this is just how he talks to women.

The hostess certainly seemed familiar with his smile.

That thought annoys me more than it should.

I look at my phone.

Still nothing.

6:46.

“Who is Kyle?”

The question is abrupt.

I set my phone facedown.

“My boyfriend.”

“You mentioned that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I asked who he is.”

“That’s still none of your business.”

“How long have you been together?”

I hesitate.

“A little over two years.”

Something dark moves through Theodore’s expression.

“And he regularly leaves you waiting alone?”

“No.”

“So this is unusual.”

“Yes.”

“Yet you don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m worried, not surprised.”

“You’re angry.”

“I can be both.”

His gaze drops to my hand resting near the phone.

“You’ve checked it fourteen times since we sat down.”

“I have not.”

“Fifteen, if we include just now.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is.”

“I meant your counting.”

“I know what you meant.”

I pick up my pen again.

“Can we return to the interview?”

“You’re distracted.”

“I’m perfectly capable of multitasking.”

“Then answer my question.”

“What question?”

“What does Kyle do?”

I stare at him.

“Why do you care?”

“I’m curious.”

“No. You’re interrogating me.”

His mouth curves.

“You asked to interview me. It seems only fair.”

“That isn’t how interviews work.”

“It is now.”

I close my notebook.

“Are you always this interested in the relationship status of reporters?”

“Only one.”

My heart does something stupid.

I ignore it.

“You’re flirting with me.”

“Yes.”

The honesty catches me completely off guard.

I blink at him.

“You’re not supposed to admit it.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” I stop. “Because people don’t.”

“I do.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“So you’ve said.”

“You should respect that.”

His jaw flexes.

“I would respect it more if he were here.”

Anger flashes through me.

“You don’t know anything about him.”

“I know he asked you to meet him here at six.”

My spine stiffens.

“I never said he asked me.”

“You said he made the reservation.”

I did.

Damn him and his irritating memory.

Theodore continues.

“I know there is no reservation under his name. I know he is nearly an hour late. I know he hasn’t called or answered any of your messages. And I know you are spending more time worrying about him than he appears to be spending worrying about you.”

Each word lands harder than the last.

I glance away.

The restaurant beyond our booth is blurred by golden light and moving shadows.

“He could be hurt,” I say quietly.

Theodore’s expression softens, but only slightly.

“If he were hurt, someone would contact you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t.”

I look at my phone again.

Nothing.

Theodore leans forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“Does he do this often?”

“No.”

“Forget plans?”

“Sometimes.”

“Fail to answer?”

“He gets busy.”

“Make you defend him?”

I look up sharply.

“I’m not defending him.”

“You are.”

“Because you’re attacking him.”

“I haven’t met him.”

“That doesn’t seem to be stopping you.”

“No,” he says calmly. “It isn’t.”

His eyes have darkened.

There’s something almost territorial in the way he says it.

Something jealous.

But that’s impossible.

Completely, utterly impossible.

The billionaire Theodore Alessandro De Luca is not jealous because of Wilhelmina Riley Bennett.

He probably doesn’t experience jealousy.

He probably purchases whatever he wants before anyone else has the opportunity to want it.

Maybe he’s simply offended by lateness.

Rich people are probably very serious about reservations.

Or he dislikes Kyle’s name.

Maybe he once had a terrible accountant named Kyle.

There are plenty of reasonable explanations.

Jealousy is not one of them.

“You’re being weird,” I say.

His eyebrow lifts.

“Weird?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You seem…” I search for a word that isn’t jealous. “Annoyed.”

“I am annoyed.”

“Why?”

“Because you keep looking at the door.”

I stare at him.

“And?”

“And every time it opens, you hope it’s him.”

He says the last word like Kyle has personally insulted his entire family.

My confusion deepens.

“That’s generally what happens when you’re waiting for someone.”

“You’re not waiting for him anymore.”

“I’m having dinner with you. That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped wondering where he is.”

“It should.”

I laugh once.

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Perfectly.”

“You met me this morning.”

“I’m aware.”

“You don’t know me.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Then let me.”

The words settle between us.

My breath catches.

Theodore’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Let you what?” I ask, even though I know.

“Know you.”

My mouth goes dry.

The server chooses that moment to return.

“Are we ready to order?”

I grab the menu like it’s a flotation device.

“Yes.”

I point at the first thing I recognize.

“The chicken.”

Theodore doesn’t look away from me.

“The steak,” he says.

“How would you like that prepared?”

“Rare.”

Of course.

The server collects our menus and disappears.

I reach for my water.

My hand bumps the glass.

Theodore catches it before it tips.

His fingers close over mine.

Warm.

Strong.

My pulse leaps.

His eyes flick toward my wrist.

Then rise slowly to my face.

For a second, his expression changes.

It’s subtle, but I see it.

His pupils widen.

His nostrils flare slightly.

Like he can hear my heart trying to escape my chest.

I pull my hand away.

“Fast reflexes.”

“You have no idea.”

I stare at him.

“What does that mean?”

His smile returns.

“Ask me tomorrow.”

“This is tomorrow’s interview.”

“No.” He lifts his wineglass. “This is dinner.”

“You agreed it was an interview.”

“I lied.”

My mouth falls open.

“You—”

Theodore takes a drink, watching me over the rim of his glass.

“You can interview me tomorrow at ten.”

“I cannot believe you.”

“You’ll come.”

“That confidence is very unattractive.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Your heartbeat disagrees.”

I freeze.

“What?”

For the first time all evening, Theodore looks like he’s made a mistake.

The expression vanishes almost immediately.

“I said your expression disagrees.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You said heartbeat.”

“You’ve had most of a margarita on an empty stomach.”

“I know what I heard.”

He leans back, entirely composed again.

“Do you?”

I narrow my eyes.

He smiles.

And somehow, infuriatingly, I’m no longer thinking about Kyle.

Not for the moment.

Which might have been Theodore’s plan all along.