CHAPTER 181

FREDRICK

I could see the Umbrella man’s Jerry curl of jet-black hair and the bright red umbrella he had laid carefully on the small dark wood of the coffee table long before he turned to run watery brown eyes over my rigid frame.

“Christ,” I swore, grinding my teeth uselessly before I marched through the revolving glass doors, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt lower over my face when the ding of the overhead bell signaled the waiter to step up to me, his pale face that had been stretched in a polite smile falling slack when I shoved past him.

The high leather stool seemed to dig painfully into my asscrack as I settled into the stool, bracing my elbows on the table and meeting Stefan McCoy’s caramel-brown eyes.

The man regarded me for a moment too long before a sensual smile deepened the grooves around his mouth, one large hand gripping a small wine glass poised dramatically under his black flaps.

“Fredrick McKenzie, we meet, finally,” He boomed, his voice deep and rich, like velvet.