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“I thought you’d have picked some exotic location. That maybe our answers would be reversed. Given our backgrounds.”
“Our backgrounds?” I’m not sure I love where this is going. “We’re both the children of business owners. From Bridgewater. I’d say our backgrounds are more alike than different.”
“In some ways, sure. But you got out. Went to college for business. Culinary school. Worked as a sous-chef in the city.”
“Keep going,” I prod.
He shrugs, but I’m not fooled. There’s earnestness where he doesn’t want there to be.
“I’m the son of a pizza shop owner, who learned to cook from his parents. No college education or anything like that. The only reason I went to Italy in the first place is because my brother struck it rich and brought us all there on a family trip last year.”
The bitterness in his voice doesn’t surprise me. I’m no psychologist, but I’m pretty sure Enzo’s success is messing him up a bit.
“Which is great, right? That he can do something like that for you all?”
“Yeah,” he says weakly. “It’s great.”
I want to ask more, but I don’t dare. We hardly know each other. “Ok, next question. The only thing worse than nails on a chalkboard is . . . ?”
“Easy. When people call red sauce gravy.”
“Oh! I totally agree. Drives me nuts.” I take a sip of wine, thinking of my own answer.
“You?”
“Snobs,” I say.
His eyes narrow.
“You’re thinking of someone in particular, aren’t you?” I ask.
“I am. The last time I visited Enzo in New York, he dragged me out to dinner with some beverage distributor. Big snob.”
“I felt like that a lot in the city. Like I stuck out like a sore thumb. Even though most people were actually really nice. But yeah, when someone thinks they’re better than you because they have, well, whatever. More money. A better job. It just grates on me. No one, and I mean no one, is better than someone else. Sometimes I have to fight myself not to look down on anyone. As self-aware as I like to pretend I am, my own biases creep up in expected ways. But I refuse to let them in. To treat people any differently because of it.”
Realizing I just jumped on my soapbox, I stand back down. “Sorry.”
He leans forward, glass in hand.
“Don’t ever apologize for passion, Evie.”
Ah hell, did he have to use that word? Because now I’m pretty sure we’re thinking the same thing. It’s so obvious the article is an excuse for us both. But I’m just too weak to resist this pull between us.
Maybe Zara is right? Is it really that big of a deal that we’re technically rivals? I mean, could it work? It’s not like we’re getting married or anything. It’s just a kiss.
Just say the word, I say silently. Say the word, and I’m in. For real.
“And just like that, it appears we did it,” he says, leaning back in his chair, his chest muscles flexing.
“Did what?”
“Had a nonwork conversation. No talk about staffing or marketing or awards. I like it.”
The hairs on my neck stand up. “Awards?”
I’m being silly. There are a ton of awards out there.
“Let’s not talk about it, ” Tris says.
