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What would my mother think of the place now? Would she like the renovations? Nothing drastic, just a refresh with some slight refinements to reflect the new tone of the menu. She would be proud. I know it in my gut but just wish she were here to confirm it.
Before I go down that rabbit hole and start thinking of times like last summer when Dad and I walked the place, noting all of the changes that should be made when I finished in New York, I jump up from the stool and grab my purse.
Exhausted and ready to hit the sack, wondering if Tris is closed up by now, I’m about to walk by the hostess stand when a vase of flowers catches my eye. Was that here earlier? Couldn’t have been.
An envelope is attached to the front of a dozen pink roses.
Evie.
I look around, as if hoping to catch the person responsible, but of course the restaurant is empty.
Taking out the notecard, I read:
Congratulations on step one of reaching your dreams. I bet you hit a home run tonight.
Text me when you leave.
Tristano
How the hell did he get this here without me noticing? Obviously he didn’t come himself. Was Maggie in on this?
Congratulations on step one of reaching your dreams.
I haven’t seen him all week, and it sucks. Since I left his restaurant on Tuesday, it’s been full steam ahead for both of us to get everything in tip-top shape for the Cucina judges. We exchanged numbers, finally, have been texting back and forth, and have talked at some point every day.
Thankfully, we’re both closed on the same days, but even those aren’t totally free. Such is the life of a restaurateur, but I have to admit that Tris totally understands my schedule is amazing.
The rival thing?
Jury is still out on that.
When I close up and get into my car, I dial Tris’s number and put him on speaker.
“Hold on one sec.”
He mumbles something—must still be at work—and then there’s more shuffling until he comes back onto the phone.
“How’d it go?” he asks through my car’s speakers.
“Who knows? You weren’t kidding when you said they were pretty stoic.”
The same couple, it seems, judged us both. Last night they were at DeLuca’s, and Tris warned me they hadn’t given much feedback.
“They said you’d hear back soon?”
“Yep. No timeline.”
So frustrating.
“So I just left.” I change topics, not eager to linger on the fact that we’re going for a competing award since, if we get to finals, there can’t be two winners in the same town. “And there was this bouquet of roses on the hostess stand.”
“Oh yeah?”
Even his voice is sexy.
“Yeah. I’m not sure how you pulled that one off, but thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
