There’s also the People magazine article showing photographs of him with several different women on various dates around the world. And there are many. I don’t love that article as much.
Amelia—the one woman in the world who seems immune to his charms—claims he looks like a street fighter, but she’s wrong. Street fighters have chunks missing from their ears and chipped teeth and meaty fists. Will Griffin is…beautiful.
He has these strong inky black brows that slash over mischievous blue-gray eyes. A muscular lithe body, and a playful mouth that looks absolutely wicked when he smiles. And there’s his left arm, covered in beautiful, ornate, black-line floral tattoos that wind all the way down his toned arm to end at a butterfly spread over the top of his hand and knuckles. I don’t have to look now to confirm the butterfly is there. I studied it enough times to have memorized its shape when Will wasn’t looking at me over those weeks he was around town.
Will has the kind of face that dares you to cross him because he would adore the chase—craves the adventure of it. No, he’s not a street fighter, he’s a roguish, wild fiend. A pirate. At least, he is in my fantasies. Also, in said fantasies, he has an earring and wears tight buckskin breeches with an open-collar, white linen shirt that reveals the chest portion of his tattoos that I’m assuming exist.
Did I mention my hobby is reading historical romances? Specifically in the piratical genre.
As Will and his gorgeous date step into the restaurant, it seems like the whole place suddenly hums to life. His soft grin sends a swirl of electricity through the air. When he places his hand on his date’s lower back, I feel a phantom of that same touch against my skin. Time slows as Will and the woman glide through the restaurant to their table—so secure and confident that they seemingly don’t even notice everyone staring. Maybe he’s used to it.
Right on cue, John’s phone starts buzzing. I smile to myself as he puts on an Oscar-worthy performance. He casts his eyes down at the phone, and etches a tiny frown between his eyebrows. A funny little hmm escapes him. “I wonder why my roommate is calling me. Do you mind if I answer?”
“No, not all,” I say weakly, distracted by the sight of Will removing his skin-licking suit jacket and draping it over the back of his chair before rolling up the cuffs of his shirt. Holy Guacamole, those forearms are glorious.
John answers his phone, voice dripping in alarm as he says, “Hello?”
Immediately his face morphs into something frowny, and I replicate it because I want an Oscar too.
“Seriously? What happened?” He holds up a be-right-back finger to me and then stands up from the table, walking away to anxiously chat with his roommate or whoever is on the other end of that line.
I finally flag down the waitress who seemed intent on avoiding us all night and ask for the check as well as a giant brownie to go.
Then I busy myself with folding my napkin into a perfect little square.
“Annie?” comes a familiar male voice from above me.
My heart hiccups, and I lift my head to look right into the mystical eyes of Will Griffin. I’ve never heard him say my name before—it was magical. I didn’t even plan to say hi to him because I wasn’t sure he would remember me.
As Amelia’s bodyguard, he was every inch the focused agent. Sure, he’d smile kindly and always winked at the old ladies, making Mabel absolutely swoon; but he never really engaged in chitchat. He always hung on the outskirts in his reflective aviator sunglasses and looked ready to take a bullet for Amelia at any moment. I get chills just thinking of it.
“Will Griffin. It’s you. Hi.”
He smiles. “Annie Walker. Hi back.”
“What are you doing here?” I look around hoping to see Adele, but no. Just the gorgeous brunette he came with looking over her menu. I turn my eyes back to Will and that’s when my gaze sweeps over him. His tailored suit pants hug nicely muscled thighs, and a formfitting black button-down shirt covers his top half. It’s snug to his shoulders, unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up to his forearms. An artful sleeve of magnolia flowers and foliage wind out from under his shirt and descend to his wrist.
Holy Potato, I bet Will has all the other men in this restaurant clutching their ladies for dear life, just hoping Will doesn’t decide to run away with one of them.
“I’m on a date actually,” he says, signaling to the lovely lady at his table.
“You’re on a date thirty minutes away from Rome? Is that a coincidence?”