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I’m sorry she is the owner of Mama Leoni’s Restaurant.
I’m sorry she and I are on a collision course as rivals.
I’m sorry I didn’t know who she was at first.
But I am not sorry to stand here with the taste of this woman still on my lips. It felt damn good. Better than I could have imagined.
And if it’s the only kiss we share, then it’ll have to do. It’s in the lockbox now.
“Well, if she saw that, we should stay on About Town for a little bit longer,” Evie says.
And that’s what matters, obviously.
“I better get back. We’ve got a lot to wrap up. And I’m sure you do too.”
“Yeah, we do. Catch you later?” she asks, the hope in her voice quickening my pulse once again.
“Sure,” I say, more casually than I feel.
I walk away, kicking myself for being so impetuous. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Or if Evie was the kind of woman you could get out of your head after a one-night stand. Hell, I’d be asking her back to my place tonight after that kiss if that were the case.
But she’s not.
She is a woman who’s lost a lot, more than most. Who is trying to make her way in a business I know firsthand can kick your ass six ways to Sunday. Not one I’m screwing around with for shits and giggles.
Not that you’d be able to tell after what just happened. Or what will happen when we crack open another bottle of Enzo’s wine later tonight, which is now my intention for later.
Catch you later?One simple question with a fuck-load of undercurrents.
15
Evie
“I come bearing gifts.”
As Tris appears at the front of our tent, Phil tries to hide his smile, but I catch him.
“Later, Chef,” he says, making himself scarce.
Which leaves Tris and I very much alone. As the night wore on, I wondered if he would come. And if he didn’t, if I should go to him.
This is becoming a problem. And yet, it’s the first time in months that I can remember going so long without thinking of my dad. It’s been hours since his face has popped into my mind. Since his advice rang in my ears.
Just because I learned how to handle the grief of losing a parent doesn’t mean I wanted to do it again so soon. But I do know, after years of therapy, I will be ok. Relatively speaking. If someone who is more than a tad obsessive and a workaholic with occasional insomnia could be considered ok.
Just like he did for us the night before, I rearrange two chairs, which no one ever seems to use as they run around the tent all day.
“You’ve got glasses this time. How classy.”
He puts the wine and glasses on the counter and ducks under it.
“We do have a door in the back, you know.”
“How much did that cost you?” he asks, nodding to the door. Tris gets to work uncorking the bottle.
“I thought we said no work talk?” I tease.
“Ahh, that’s right. Sorry. Old habits die hard.”
