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I give her a five and dump the change in a tip bucket. The likely reason for the extra fifty cents, taking care of his workers.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
I do look up then, just slightly.
And there he is. Looks like the boss came back. Tristano is kneeling down near the back of the tent, fiddling with one of the burners. He doesn’t see me, thankfully.
Taking advantage of that fact, I hurry away with my prize. It looks so good I can’t help but bring it up to my nose to smell it first. Standing off to the side, I wrestle with the plastic fork, which doesn’t want to cooperate. Finally, I get the ravioli cut in half. Stabbing it with my fork, I take a bite.
Delicious.
“What’s the verdict?”
Oh my God.
Instead of turning around, I pretend not to hear him. We talked for less than an hour, but I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my head all week.
“Evie?”
Shitballs.
Putting the fork back down into the white and red cardboard container, I slowly turn around. Dressed in jeans and a white tee with his restaurant logo, he’s the complete opposite of the tuxedoed man I danced with at the wedding.
This one is casual. Cool as a cucumber. But just as deadly handsome.
“Oh, hi.”
I guess it’s good he seems more amused than angry. Tristano was not very happy last Saturday to learn my identity.
“Hi.”
How did he even get to me so fast from the back of the tent?
“So, how is it?”
I look down at the ravioli as if surprised to find it in my hand.
“Uh . . .”
“Cat got your tongue?”
Most definitely.
He takes two steps toward me, obliterating the space between us. I’m so surprised when he reaches for my fork, I don’t even react.
“Allow me.”
He stabs the other half of the ravioli and lifts it to my mouth.
It’s something chefs, like us, do a million times. But in this situation, it’s still forward and . . . incredibly hot. And also confusing.
I can’t say anything about him ditching me at the wedding because my mouth is opening on its own accord. His lips part too, and I’m lost.
Instead of tasting the ravioli, I’m imagining him leaning into me. Kissing me. Devouring me. A guy like Tristano DeLuca isn’t one to be gentle.
Slowly closing my lips on the fork, intentionally, or maybe instinctively, I look straight into his chocolate-brown eyes as I chew. They’re dark, like the rest of him.
