Page 5 of Playing for Love

The man, whose name was scrawled in large red lettering across the top of the whitewashed exterior, took Gabe in a solid man hug, laughing as he said something in Italian. He glanced at me, nodded his head, and raised his brows.

“This is Denise’s friend, Mia. She’s new in town. Let’s make her feel welcome.”

“Bene. Come inside and sit. Like we do for Gabriel, I will make you feel like this is your home.”

He led us inside through the busy restaurant to the back and to a semiprivate room where he sat us in a private booth.

“It smells heavenly in here,” I said to the old man before he left us with menus.

I said under my breath, “Do you always get secreted away from prying eyes to the out of the way booth?”

“Not always. Just on busy nights. Louie likes to take care of me. Do you mind? Do you want to sit in the main—”

“No, no. This is fine. Intimate.” The main dining room had been almost full and noisy, fun. People from the neighborhood must walk here.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe with me.” He showed his dimple and raised his hands.

“I know I couldn’t be safer.” It was true. It was the pull of my old crush I needed to worry about, not him making a play. Once I tore my eyes from his intoxicating face, I noticed the corner of a tattoo stamped on his upper bicep disappearing under the straining short sleeve of his silky black T-shirt.

“You have a tattoo?”

“It’s the Militia team logo.” He grinned.

“It figures.” I shouldn’t have said it. His smile flickered, but didn’t disappear. We both knew Denise had wanted him to get a tattoo of her name. He’d refused. He didn’t know I knew that story. Unfortunately she’d told me every awful detail of his neglect.

“You have any tattoos?”

Nodding, I said, “One. Small and intimate. You’ll never see it.” I shouldn’t be a tease, but I was charged with testing him. Not that I would tell him Denise wanted me to be more than a watch dog. She was nuts, or maybe more like desperate. It was sad because she was really a very proud woman and I’d admired that about her.

His eyes went intense, boring inside me, squeezing my chest, giving me palpitations I had no business having.

“If I’m never going to see your tattoo,” he said in a low voice, way past any teasing I’d had in mind, “you’ll have to tell me all about it. Describe it in detail. Tell me where it is so I can imagine it.”

Yikes. I had to stop the direction of this conversation. I wasn’t prepared for his return volley, although I should have known he’d be an expert flirt. Like everything else about him. A waiter came by then, saving me from having to answer. Not that I could have since my mind had gone blank and the only thing floating in my awareness besides him was that I’d need some fresh panties before the night was over.

“Have you decided on your dinner choices?”

“Hey Marco, you know what I’m having. My usual Friday-night-before-a-game meal.”

Marco nodded and smiled, then turned to me.

“She’ll have osso bucco al la Milanese.” He spoke for me, ordered for me. But the thing was I was okay with his choice, didn’t even mind his taking over. It made me feel . . . taken care of, special. Like I was someone to him when in fact I was nothing. A person with a remote, tenuous association in a world filled with people who all clamored for a piece of him. This waiter Marco was more linked to him than I was.

And yet I felt a connection between us. One that had nothing to do with Denise.

“So who do you have in mind to fix me up with?” I jumped in as soon as the waiter left, before he could revive his question about my tattoo. I didn’t want to tell him about it and I knew he’d soften me if I allowed him. I already felt soft—and hot and wet—enough.

He let me get away with the change in subject with only a mild knowing twinkle in his eyes.

“Denise—or should I say, the one whose name we dare not speak—said to avoid fixing you up with my teammates, so I have no clue.”

“I’m overriding her orders then.” I felt on the border of laughter, amused by everything he said—when he wasn’t flexing his sensual flirtation muscles. I added, “How about this weekend?”

I needed a distraction right away. Someone else to flirt with besides the man my best friend wanted to marry. He was too fast becoming the object of my affection—my crush all over again. It must be a rebound thing from Paul.

Marco came back with some bread and a bottle of red wine and poured us each a glass. Gabe took a sip of his.

“You sure you’re ready?” He wasn’t teasing. It was a real question. A caring question. He put his glass down. “Denise said you just had a breakup.”