Sinful Infatuation: Chapter 1

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3 years ago…April 8

Orange Tabby Bar and Lounge

Manhattan, NY

11:45pm

 “Jack and ginger,” a brusque voice demanded. Jourdain looked up from her post behind the bar. The man’s eyes were staring down at the Blackberry in his tanned hands. Another phone, an iPhone, was buzzing and lighting up, neglected on the bar countertop.

Jourdain knew his type--- high-maintenance, self-entitled, pretentious. She rolled her eyes. That was the normal fair at the Orange Tabby. Quite frankly, she was sick of it all--- the assholes that would come and hit on her and leave her outrageous tips to show off their wealth, or order fancy drinks in their hopes to seem worldly. But the money was good, and much needed to put her through law school. She was in her last year, due to graduate next month.

She finished, placing the drink and the cocktail napkin in front of him. “You’re welcome,” she said smartly, even though no thank you had been issued.

The man looked up at her, shocking her with his disconcertingly emerald green eyes. Eyes of which were currently locked with hers in a hard stare. Now that he looked up, however, she could make out more of his features, specifically, his thick, curly black hair that reminded her of Adrian Grenier’s. He also had facial hair, a neatly trimmed beard that framed a perfect set of lips and a chiseled jaw. “You think you’re funny?” There was a slight accent in the question, Italian, she guessed.

Jourdain blinked. “Not at all.” With that she turned to serve the other patrons, but the handsome stranger never returned his attention to his phones. Instead, his distracting glare followed her every movement, making her nervous, clumsy. When she almost dropped a bottle of Moscato, she’d had it. Slamming the bottle down she asked, “Are you going to stare at me the whole night? Either order another drink or please sit somewhere else.”

His finger flicked to his empty glass. She refilled it. “You are a clumsy bartender,” he stated, as if what he said was the God’s honest truth.

Her lips twisted wryly. “Good thing I wasn’t looking to make a career out of this then, huh?” Jourdain moved on, tending to the needs of other people at the bar. Briefly she looked up, seeing the growing crowd in the lounge, as it became twelve o’clock. The music was turned up just a notch louder, and as an influx of people swamped the bar, she became so engrossed in carrying out orders that she forgot about the handsome stranger.

When she returned to him, he slid her his credit card: a black American Express. Jourdain wanted to scoff. Typical. “People say that when men look for potential mates, they end up the most happy with the one who reminds them of their mother,” the stranger said quietly. Jourdain paused, before going back to typing in the numbers for the check. This had to be the oddest line she’d ever heard.

“What are you saying? That I remind you of Momma,” she paused at looked at the name, “Nicoletti?”

Matteo G. A. Nicoletti IV, as stated on his credit card, smirked, a brief tug of the corner of his lip. “No. You remind me nothing of her.” Before he walked away he left an appropriate tip.

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