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“I’ll kill her,” I say, mostly kidding.
“Read it,” he says.
Zara is a dead woman walking. She approves every story. At least I know why she called me earlier. Knowing I hate talking on the phone and much prefer texts, I thought it was strange, especially at nine o’clock in the morning.
“Too many cooks in the kitchen? Apparently not when it comes to two of Bridgewater’s favorites, Ms. Evie Fuller and Mr. Tristano DeLuca. After being spotted together last weekend at the wedding of the season, our two rival chefs—Ms. Fuller, the owner of Mama Leoni’s Restaurant, and Mr. DeLuca, owner of DeLuca’s II—were seen sharing an unnamed dish at Festa yesterday. About Town will be keeping an eye on this intriguing pair. As Louisa May Alcott said, ‘Rivalry adds so much to the charms of one’s conquests.’”
I look up. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Except, he doesn’t seem pissed. At all.
“Look again.”
Glancing back down at the paragraph, one of four quasi stories on About Town, I don’t see anything different than before.
“Before you kill poor Zara . . .” Tris smiles. Not a polite smile, or one you’d make when greeting someone. But a knowing smile that makes him seem more devilish than usual. As he steps toward me to point back down to the paragraph, I get a whiff of him. Same cologne as last weekend when we danced. And last night. Damn, the man smells good. “My brother brought this over to me. Gian is in marketing.”
His brother is in marketing. And gave him this article. I don’t get . . .
Ahhhh, of course.
“Our restaurant names.” That’s what he’s pointing to in the article. “Press,” I conclude.
“Exactly.”
The adage “No press is bad press” isn’t actually true. But in this case, the story is harmless enough. And accurate, actually. In which case . . .
“Maybe I won’t kill her. But I’m definitely calling her back immediately.”
“So she called to warn you?”
“Apparently.”
I hand him back the paper.
“But that doesn’t explain your devilish look.”
“Devilish?”
He’s doing it again.
“Yes. Devilish.” I’m reminded of when I first saw him watching me from across the room at the wedding. As if I were dessert. If the devil had a look, and it was seductive, this would be the one.
A loud banging on the street behind us, as if someone is unloading a truck, breaks the spell.
“About Town will be keeping an eye on this intriguing pair,” he quotes.
“I’m not following.”
“Let’s give them something to keep writing about.”
Is he suggesting . . . ?
“Gian says it’s a fairly common publicity trick. Not one we invited, but if it helps both of our businesses?”
My head spins at the possibility.
“You’re suggesting we do what exactly?” My answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes. To whatever he’s proposing.
