Page 20 of The Vow

The waiter cleared our appetizer dishes and winked at me to quietly say, “What the hell are noodles?” Alex didn’t notice.

“How’s Nick?” she asked me.

“He’s still in the doghouse.”

“Good. If he was my husband, that’s where I’d put him too. When do you fight again?”

“In ten days.”

“Are you nervous?”

“It’s the nature of the game. If a boxer is too cocky, he’s sure to lose.”

A businessman watched and snickered as Alex leaned over and lifted the tablecloth. I clued in to her antics when her head emerged. “You’re sure to lose.”

My face flushed the same color as the Chianti. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I’m not the kind of girl who would flirt with her boss. I’m offended that you’d even ask me that.”

“You’re a mystery, Alex,” I told her. What I didn’t tell her is that I couldn’t wait to solve the mystery. “Have you always been this bold?”

“Do you know a creative person that isn’t a little quirky?”

I almost pulled my journal from my suit jacket, but I didn’t. I wasn’t ready to put myself under the spotlight. In fact, I was intimidated by her talent. Although I only read one poem, it lingered on my mind. I even memorized it. “I don’t know many creative people.”

“Not a single person in your family? No one sings? Dances?”

“We do. When the wine flows, or we have too much Sambuca. No one is gifted in that way. Unless you count my cousin Enzo. His graffiti is like a work of art.”

“Isn’t graffiti the same as vandalism?”

“Only if you get caught. You should know all about that since you like to use windows instead of doors.”

She hid behind her wine glass. Over its rim, her eyes spoke volumes. For a fraction of a second, they were mischievous. I wasn’t waiting for an invitation to enter her world. I had already let myself in.

“Pollo Potacchio per il signore, and Linguine Alla Vodka per la signorina.” The waiter placed a fresh napkin beside Alex’s bowl, along with a spoon.

“Can you bring the other meals all at once, please?”

“Certo. Of course.”

“Thank you,” she told him.

“Give me that spoon.”

“Why?”

“Because in Italy, you only use a fork to twirl your pasta,” I said, emphasizing the word pasta.

“But we’re not in Italy.”

“Trust me, Alex.”

“Why? Do you trust me?” she asked, handing over her spoon.

“I do now,” I said, taking it. “Buon appetito.”

“I know that phrase. Right back at ya.”