Then Josh steps in, wrapping an arm around me too.“No need to thank us,” he says warmly.“That little girl has been our granddaughter since the first day she walked into this house. The honor is all ours.”
Emotion burns behind my eyes, but I swallow it down before it escapes.
“Ready to go?” Ethan asks gently.
I nod. He helps me into my coat and scarf, his fingers brushing the back of my neck with quiet tenderness, and we both kneel to hug Mia goodbye.
???
The restaurant sits tucked between two old brick buildings, its windows glowing gold against the winter dark. Inside, warmth wraps around us immediately, garlands of pine draped along the rafters, soft Italian music drifting from hidden speakers, candles flickering on every table like tiny stars.
Ethan opens the door for me, his hand gentle on my lower back as he guides me in.
The place is small, maybe ten tables at most, each one made of dark, knotty wood. The air smells like garlic, simmering tomatoes, and something sweet, caramel maybe. Or maybe it’s just Christmas.
I’m halfway to our table when a painting on the wall pulls me up short.
Sleeping Venus.
Even the replica looks luminous, her pale skin contrasted with the deep reds and greens around her. I haven’t seen it in years, but my body remembers before my mind does.
“Ahhh, you know dis one.”
The voice comes from my left, warm, rolling, unmistakably Italian.
The owner stands beside me, tall and round, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and the kind of smile only people who cook for a living wear naturally.
“Sleeeeping Venus, Giorgione,” he says, drawing out the vowels like he’s savoring them.“Dey don’t paint women like dis anymore. Soft. Real. Beautiful.” His eyes shift to me as Ethanhelps me slide out of my coat.“But,mamma mia, I see we have a masterpiece right here, sì?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I have no idea what to say.
Ethan doesn’t give me the chance, his arms slip around me from behind, solid and warm despite the cold outside.
“I found the most beautiful woman in the world and convinced her to date me, Massimo.”
Massimo’s laugh booms through the restaurant.“Ahh, Ethan,ragazzo,you have good taste.”
He gestures for us to follow, weaving through tables decorated with tiny red Christmas bows and flickering candles.
Ethan pulls out my chair and I sit, the soft scrape of wood on old tile echoing under the Christmas music. He leans down, lips brushing my neck so lightly I almost think I imagined it, until the warmth of his breath grazes my skin.
My whole body tightens. Goosebumps. Heat. Nerves.
By the time he sits across from me, my pulse is doing acrobatics.
Massimo returns with two menus, placing them with a flourish.
We order a carafe of his homemade wine. Ethan chooses amatriciana; I go with lasagna because Ethan swears it’s life-changing.
Massimo brings olives and still-warm breadsticks, steam curling up from the basket like a promise.
“So,” I say, breaking an olive open between my fingers,“did you always want to be a firefighter?”
Ethan takes a slow sip of wine before answering. The candle between us catches his eyes, turning the green deeper, warmer.
“I did,” he says.“I was seven when we visited the fire station in Fremont County. The firefighters showed us everything, hoses, ladders, rescue gear. Told us stories that made them sound like superheroes.” His mouth lifts into a small, fond smile.“I was hooked. Went home and told my family I was going to save the world one fire at a time.”
“Your parents wanted you to go to college?” I ask softly.
