Deliverance (#2) | ✓

three: something in return

My shift comes to an end when I serve my last customer and the next shift members walk in with smiles on their faces. I barely talk to anyone I work with so I send them small smiles and remove my apron.

Standing by the door for the past fifteen minutes is Luca, arms folded across his chest as he stares at me.

As soon as I approach him, I pull the three bills from my pocket and press it against his chest, his arms falling to his sides, with a scoff escaping me, "I don't need nor appreciate your charity, Luca. I'm not a therapist or an escort that needs to be paid for my time."

He arches a perfectly groomed brow as he stares at me, "Is that why you walked over and checked on me unprovoked?"

I roll my eyes, "It's called being a kind human being. Maybe you'll get it when you don't act like a jerk to a woman who just wanted to help."

"I gave you money. How is that acting like a jerk?" He asks in confusion as I push the door to the café open only to be hit by the cool New York air that usually makes an appearance mid-November. I pull my hand away, allowing the door to close on him but he catches it.

He holds the door open for a couple that walks in before using his large stride to catch up to me.

"You still don't get it." I mumble and shake my head, "It's not about giving me money, Luca. It's about the fact that I just wanted to help you and you thought I did it with an ulterior motive."

I continue my walk only to be stopped by Luca gripping my arm softly, but instinct forces me to push him away, my chest heaving with anxiety.

"Please don't do that." I plead, my eyes downcast as I focus my attention on the brown leaves scattered on the ground.

He says nothing of my actions and instead steps closer to me, his expensive shoes just inches from my white sneakers. I exhale shakily and allow myself to look up at him. For a second, I have to catch myself from staring into his intriguing eyes.

This isn't worth my time or my stress levels. I should've just minded my business earlier.

"I'm sorry." He deadpans, though he doesn't elaborate on what he's sorry about. Touching me or treating me like a service. Part of me expected that — he's obviously not a man of many words. Exhaling through his nose, his eyes leave mine and he looks toward something in the distance. I don't have it in me to care enough. "Let me treat you to dinner."

"And then what? You expect me to get in your bed in return?" I question, not ashamed of my words. He's already practically accused me of having an ulterior motive by giving me money for trying to help, what's to say he wouldn't want me to slide into bed with him in exchange for him buying me dinner?

I don't know him. For all I know, he's some serial killer that is waiting for me to drop my guard.

The only reason I didn't say no immediately was because I'm hungry enough to consider it, stupidly enough.

He frowns, "You really think that low of me, Remi?"

"I don't know you, Luca."

He scoffs out a slightly amused laugh, "What happened to the girl that sat across from me without no hesitation?"

"She came to her senses."

"I won't do anything except get you food, Remi. I expect nothing in return." He says, eyes meeting mine again and I can see the sincerity behind them. "I swear on my mother's grave."

•••

The restaurant he took me to wasn't much — it was a quaint Thai shop with a cute old woman and her son as the owners. A few patrons are scattered across the restaurant, munching away at their food with smiles on their faces as they converse.

Even I was able to muster one when the son — who couldn't have been older than fifteen — came up and took our orders with a bright smile on his face. One bright enough to rival the sun that set just moments ago.

And then there's Luca, as grumpy as ever as he keeps his stare on the table between us. I'm starting to get concerned with how quickly his emotions change but I guess I can't be the judge of that — just twenty minutes ago, I accused him of wanting to have sex with me.

Maybe that was a bit self-centered but I have experience with the minds of men — especially men who put on the mask of wanting to do good only to ask for something in return.

Maybe that's how he felt about me earlier...

I'm such a hypocrite.

"I'm sorry," I say, capturing his attention. He looks up with furrowed brows, "For earlier. Assuming that you meant bad with the money. You probably just wanted to help out and I demeaned that."

He tilts his head for a second, "No apology needed. I see how that looks from your perspective — a man walking in looking how I look, you just trying to help put a smile on my face, but I gave you money in an effort to thank you for your time. You're right, you're not my therapist or an escort. There could've been a better way to word it, but I do think you should keep the money."

"I don't need to." I say, "I make more than enough at the café." I don't considering I don't even get paid for the overtime (but I did that to myself) but he doesn't need to know that. "Thank you though."

He narrows his eyes at me, "How much do you get paid?"

I glance up at him through my lashes, fingers stuck on the menu I was submerged in. "More than enough."

He rolls his eyes and leans back, mouth closed as the young boy brings our meals to us. We thank him and begin to eat when he walks away.

"How many tattoos do you have?" I ask, trying to fill the silence between us.

He glances up at me before stirring his soup, "More than enough."

awwwwwwww i can already see them blossoming into something beautiful 🥺