trusts you?" I say.
He grins and holds up his phone. I read the text on the screen:
Do not fucking sleep with her. She's like Kat's sister. She's FAMILY.
I sniff. "From Gray?"
Chase nods.
"And you're going to do as he says?
He keeps his eyes on the road. "I do whatever the fuck I like, Princess."
I gasp as Chase pulls to a stop in front of Il Duca. I've obviously never been inside the swanky Italian restaurant—not on my teacher's salary—but I recognize it from my guilty-pleasure addiction to tabloid magazines. It's the place to come for anyone who's anyone —and for anyone who doesn't want anyone else to see what they're up to.
You can find buildings like this all over the Village—the beautiful red-brick structure is probably more than one hundred years old. But there's only one Il Duca, Two young valets stand outside, along with four or five paparazzi waiting for their chance to get a shot of a celebrity coming in, or, better yet, leaving drunk with their arms around an old—or new—lover.
But Chase doesn't pull up to the valet station. Instead, he drives around the corner, turns down a dark alleyway, and stops in front of an unmarked door. A young guy runs up to the car and catches the keys Chase tosses his way.
"Where are we?" I say.
Chase looks back at the building, then at me. "Il Duca. Back entrance. Nice and private this way."
I stare at him in horror.
"Chase, I'm not going in there. I can't ."
Chase frowns. It strikes me again how unbelievably good-looking he is. He's tall and strong, with defined, lean muscles.
"Why not?"
And those eyes. Men always compliment me on my blue eyes, but mine are a pale watercolor version of his. Couple that with the dark, messy hair; a fierce, strong jaw that his close-cropped dark beard can't hide; and that bright smile that promises so many dark, delicious things…
He's perfect.
At least, he looks perfect. I know as well as anyone that looks can be deceiving. But appearances do matter, if you're strolling into one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. Chase fits right in; he's gorgeous, bad-ass, effortlessly cool.
I, however, am wearing kitten pants.
"I'm wearing leggings," I say. "Leggings with cat faces all over them. And I basically have a bedazzled bra on and not much else."
Chase studies me for a moment, his face grim like he just realized we have a serious problem. He crosses his arms, puts his hand on his chin, and studies me. He's able to keep this fake-serious look going for about ten seconds before he throws back his head and laughs.
Damn, it's a nice laugh.
"Feeling underdressed, Princess? Don't forget: You've got your tiara." He effortlessly grabs my hand, tugs gently, and I fall out of the car and into his arms.
Damn. Nice arms.
"And you could be wearing a paper bag and you'd still be the classiest lady in this place." Chase's eyes twinkle. When he smiles, sexy laugh lines form around the corners of his eyes. How old he is. Late twenties? Early thirties?
"But don't worry. I know the owner," Chase says. His voice takes on a darker edge when he says, "He'll definitely let us in."
I eye the back door dubiously, allowing myself to enjoy those strong, warm arms for approximately 3.5 seconds, then stand up on my own two feet. I feel for the tiara on the top of my head. I actually keep forgetting it's there, it's so light. Who knew so much money could be condensed into something I can barely feel?
Not that I'm keeping it.
"I'm borrowing this for tonight and tonight only," I say. "I hope you kept the receipt. Or maybe you'd like the crown?" I cock my head and pretend to examine his face. "It'd look good with the beard."
He laughs again, putting his arm around my waist and turning me toward the restaurant.
"I'll tell you a secret, Princess. You get in my bed, and I'll wear whatever the fuck you want." He pulls me closer for a moment, bending down to whisper in my ear. Damn, his beard does feel good when it rubs against my skin. "Or