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It’s a tricky thing, drinking wine with your rival. No topic is safe, really.
“I am sorry about your father. And your mother as well. I didn’t know her, but your father and mine were cordial. I met him a few times. Great guy.”
I’m not at all surprised by the pain in Evie’s eyes at my words. The thought of losing my parents is inconceivable to me.
“Thank you. He was a great guy. The best, actually.”
“It must have been hard, to sell the dealership.”
Fuller’s Auto is a staple of Bridgewater. Every car we ever owned came from Evie’s father’s dealership.
“Extremely hard. But there was no way I could manage both. My father did it but . . . I am a chef,” she finishes.
Back to business. As if there’s really any way to avoid it.
“You were in New York, if memory serves?”
To any outsider, this would look like two people winding down after an extremely long night. For me, though, this is just the opposite. I’m as tuned up at this moment as I’ve been all day. Being so close to her reminds me of the effortlessness of our dance. Of how good she felt in my arms. Of how I’d considered asking her out. And how, for the briefest of moments, I saw us together.
“I moved there after CIA. Worked under Steve Brunell.”
Holy shit.
“You worked at Il Piacere?” How did I not know any of this?
“I was Chef Brunell’s sous for the last six months.”
Talk about chops. A far cry from being trained to cook by your Italian mama. The Culinary Institute. Understudy to one of the top Italian chefs in New York. An impressive resume.
If it weren’t for a subscription toCucina, I wouldn’t know half of the fancy restaurants and awards, never mind Il Piacere or Chef Brunell. And I only have one because Lusanne got me a subscription for Christmas last year.
“You’ve trained to take over Leoni’s,” I say, as much to myself as aloud.
Evie doesn’t flinch as she drinks her wine.
“I have.”
Clearly she isn’t a run-of-the-mill restaurant owner. Evie Fuller is the real deal.
And she’s here to stay.
“What about you?”
There she goes again, chewing on her poor bottom lip. It seemed like something she did when she was nervous, but Evie looks pretty relaxed right about now.
“What about me?” Looking inside my cup to find it empty, I reach for the bottle. Stalling. Unsure why I thought washing down pepper cookies with a bottle of wine with Evie Fuller was a good idea.
“Refill?”
She hesitates. “It’s late. I probably shouldn’t.”
There’s a “but” in there, so I wait.
Screw that.
“Join the club.” I lean forward, refill her cup and then my own. “My story is basically the exact opposite of yours. No college. No fancy training.”
She bristles, so I walk it back.
