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She reaches for them, pulling my mom’s pepper cookies toward her.
“I’d planned to snag some of these before the weekend was over. Thank you.”
I’m surprised when she pops open the lid of the plastic container and takes out a cookie. Though I’d have expected her to take them for later, there’s something appealing about Evie not waiting. She takes a bite and, God help me, makes a mewing sound deep in her throat.
This is spiraling. Quickly.
“Soooo good,” she murmurs before taking another bite.
Every day this week, I woke up with a raging hard-on because I’d either had a dream about or actively thought of this woman. After getting over myself at being so pissy last weekend, I realized I’d been less angry she hadn’t told me her name and far angrier about who she really was.
If Evie Fuller were anyone but one of my biggest rivals, I’d have already asked her out. Which, by itself, is telling, since the last woman I dated had ended up precisely like the one before that. With complaints about my schedule. And that was before the restaurant had actually opened. Pizza shop, restaurant . . . doesn’t really matter.
My life is about food, family, and not being the only DeLuca brother unable to find success. Which is why I’ve been hooking up, and nothing more, these days.
“I’m sorry too,” I blurt out, knowing it needs to be said, even though those words don’t come naturally to me. “I was so shocked by my brother’s revelation that I was a bit of a dick last weekend.”
Her eyes widen.
“I could have at least given you back your wine.”
The tent to our left, a bakery from Brooklyn, shuts down its lights. With the streetlights just next to us, and my own white bulbs hanging across the front of the stand, I can still see her expression clearly.
Somewhere between curious and amused, Evie just stares at me.
“Let me make it up to you.”
Before she can answer, I head over to the back of the tent, to the locked cabinet that holds all of the items we leave here for the night. Taking out my keys, I open it and pull out a bottle of Enzo’s wine.
Locking the cabinet back up, I find a corkscrew and two plastic cups.
“You keep wine and a corkscrew in your tent?”
Filling both cups, I make my way back to Evie.
“Not usually. Left over from setup night. Let me grab chairs?”
Relieved she watches me put down the cups without taking one and tossing it in my face, I pull open two fold-up chairs and position them toward the square.
I take the cups, hand her one, and sit.
“I’m surprised I’m not more tired after today,” she says, sitting beside me.
Unlike Saturday, she’s hesitant. Not that I blame her after what happened. Or maybe because the night of the wedding was filled with possibility. Tonight, on the other hand, is nothing more than an apology and renewed cordiality between two competitors.
“Adrenaline.” I take a sip of wine. “By the time you try to wake up in a few hours, you’ll feel like you were hit by a truck.” And then I realize who I’m talking to. “Not unlike a busy weekend at the restaurant.”
Evie shakes her head. “This is different. I don’t remember it being this busy when I was young.”
“You worked at your parents’ tent at Festa too?”
A security guard walks by and, thanks to the special occasion permit I’ve secured, doesn’t say anything about our open container. We don’t actually sell alcohol, but I got it for the staff. A tradition my mother started at Festa even before Enzo’s wine.
Wine is life, she’d say, though I’m pretty sure she lifted the quote from someone.
“My mother’s,” she corrected. “Dad would help out as much as he could, but the restaurant was always hers, the car dealership his.”
Because I did my research when I opened DeLuca’s II, I know a bit of their history. After Evie’s mother died, her father hired their longtime manager, who, rumor has it, was fired by the very woman sitting next to me.
