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When he came up to me, I was too stunned to say much. Then, when I realized he didn’t know me . . . things spiraled pretty quickly. And that dance.
I’d been absolutely terrified, but he made dancing in front of a few hundred people, or at least fifty that had been watching, seem as easy as baking cookies. Forgetting the fact that this man is my single biggest barrier to being the go-to Italian restaurant in Bridgewater, holding his hand, being this close to a man like Tristano . . .
My poor heart hasn’t stopped pounding since Cole spotted him walking toward me near the bar. The last time I saw him was at Chari’s bachelorette party. He’d been at one of the bars with his brother. Chari and Enzo had planned a bachelor/bachelorette party crossover, and for an entire hour, I stared at him.
It had been embarrassing, really. Jay and I had taken a break. Again. I began that night saying I wanted nothing to do with men ever again. And then he showed up. Chari caught me peeking and tried to introduce me. Apparently she wasn’t bothered in the least that Tris and I own rival restaurants.
Instead, I practically hid in the corner until we moved on to another bar. And now . . . holy hell, is this really happening?
“So tell me, Evie, how do you know Chari?”
That gravelly voice when he says my name. I just can’t.
“We went to high school together and have stayed in touch since.” Breathing deeply, I decide whatever Tristano is wearing is my new favorite smell in the world.
“Where did you go?”
“To college?”
He nods. I can’t stop staring at his lips. I wonder if he ever shaves completely? Every time I’ve seen him, Tristano has this five o’clock shadow thing going, but never a full beard. Which I normally don’t love. But on him . . .
“Pitt.”
“Ahh, so plain or strawberry?”
“Strawberry, of course. How do you know Pamela’s?”
“I’m a bit of a pancake connoisseur.”
My not-so-dainty laugh attracts unwanted attention. Oops. “A pancake connoisseur?”
“Mm-hmm. They happen to be my favorite food.”
I don’t believe him. “Your dad owns a pizza place.” Crap, I really shouldn’t have gone there, but it’s too late now. “And you own an Italian restaurant, and your favorite food is a pancake?”
“Among others.” His smile is seductive, promising.
“Such as?”
His hand shifts a bit on the small of my back, which reminds me I am actually in this man’s arms. What if it slipped lower? All the way down to cup my backside, maybe squeezing a bit as he pulled me in closer?
“Manicotti. Steak. My mother’s pepper cookies.”
DeLuca’s pizza is famous for two things. Their square, thick-crusted pizza and Tris’s mother’s pepper cookie, which she only sells twice a year. Before Christmas and at the Bridgewater Italian Festival.
“I’ve had them,” I confess. “My dad gets”—I correct myself—“got them for Christmas every year. Mom used to make them, but,” I lower my voice, “your mom’s are better.”
He might not know me, but I’m pretty sure Tristano knew my father, which means he probably knows about Mom too. Which is good since it’s not something I want to elaborate on at the moment.
“There’s a trick to making them.”
Oh geez, we really are in dangerous territory here. The last thing I want is for him to think I was fishing for recipes once he learns who I am. So I change topics.
“I bet. Although the greatest trick is to have someone else bake, or cook, for you. It’s always better.”
“That’s true,” he says as the song comes to an end too soon. A fast one replaces it, and I don’t think I’m the only one who’s sad to see it ended. Tris is really slow to let go of me, and I’m in no rush either. But, at the risk of this getting awkward, I release his hand. He steps back.
Something passes between us.
