Up until now, I haven’t told Mick about our baby to protect myself. But I know I’ll keep the secret to also spare him the guilt. We were both young and made mistakes. I’m still hurt by his betrayal—that kind of pain doesn’t just fall off like molting feathers—but I’m not harboring the same degree of anger and resentment. So although I’ll never trust him with my heart again, I have no desire to saddle Mick with something he can’t change.
“Hey,” he says, misreading my silence. “I didn’t mean to get all heavy on you and ruin my chances for a second date.”
“Nice try,” I say, taking in the humor in his eyes. “This isn’t a date, remember?”
“Whatever it is, Dee, I’m glad you’re here.”
Minutes later, we pull into the lot of an inconspicuous restaurant. The weathered red awning bears the nameArturo’s, and the dull brown building is the size of a shoe box. Even though Mick assured me we weren’t going anywhere posh, with his wealth I had still thought it would be someplace upscale and trendy. This is a pleasant surprise.
“It might not look like much on the outside,” he says, “but Arturo’s is a hidden gem.”
“How did you come across it?” I ask while he backs into a space.
“When I first moved back to the Chicago area and started with the Bulls, I couldn’t go anywhere in the city without the media hounding me. I don’t like cooking for one, ordering in got old, and I could mooch off Victor and Isabelle only so often.
“I had taken to driving out of the way to find places that would afford me some privacy. One night, I stumbled across Arturo’s. He recognized me but didn’t make a big deal out of it. Here, I’m not Micah Peters. I’m just Mick.”
That slice of normalcy.
Mick comes around to open the door for me, and I grab my tote bag to join him. He presses his palm against my lower back, the way he always does, and I shiver the way I always do.
“Cold?” he asks, drawing me closer.
“Yes,” I lie. I could never be cold when Mick’s touching me.
“Watch the rise,” he cautions about the uneven threshold as he steers me through the entrance.
The tiny eatery gleams with cleanliness. The scarred wooden floors are polished to a glistening shine. Red-and-white-checkered cloths cover the square tabletops, and a big chalkboard features the specials.
Swinging doors push open and a short, pudgy man of about sixty, wearing a white chef’s hat and apron, booms in welcome, “Mick, my friend!Benvenuto!”
After the men exchange a hearty embrace, Mick makes the introductions. “Art, I’d like you to meet Deeana Chase. Dee, this is Arturo Russo, owner and chef extraordinaire.”
He’s so adorable I just want to hug him myself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arturo.”
“Ciao,bellissima, the pleasure is all mine,” he says, and the lines of his worn face crinkle in appreciation before he plants an enthusiastic kiss on each of my cheeks. “You make the smile reach Mick’s eyes. He comes here two, sometimes three, times a week. But he doesn’t smile like this. I say, ‘Mick, eating alone is lonely business, bring a nice girl.’ Finally you listen to me, eh?” Arturo says, clapping Mick on his back.
Shock waves roll over me. How could this be? I look at Mick, with his head thrown back for a rumbling laugh, trying to reconcile this man who eats alone two or three times a week, avoids recognition, and devotes his time to running Papa T’s Kids with his public persona. He’s dark and gorgeous. Ruggedly sexy with that inky shadow on his jaw and confident swagger. He’s a sex symbol who has graced the covers of magazines. He has his pick of female companions, a Rolodex full of their numbers, I’m sure. Why bring me here for his debut with a “nice girl”? And further, is it true that being with me makes Mick happy?
My thoughts are still whirling when a young woman comes through the same swinging doors. She observes Mick with red-blooded female admiration and hurries forward for a hug. He gathers her pert little body in his arms, and I no longer feel all that special.
“We missed you last week,” she says when they pull apart.
“I had some things to take care of.”
“I can see that,” the woman replies teasingly, and her eyes slide over to me.
He chuckles and nudges her shoulder in a brotherly gesture. “Jo-Jo, this is Dee. Dee, this is Jo-Jo, Art’s youngest daughter. She’s considering law school. Dee’s an attorney.”
“Really?” the girl asks, her pretty face lighting up with interest. “What kind of law?”
“Child advocacy,” I tell her. “What area are you considering?”
“I’m not sure yet.” She shrugs. “This is only my second year at the University of Chicago, but I’ve been thinking of Family Law. Do you think I could pick your brain sometime?”
“Absolutely. Feel free to give me a call.” I reach into my bag and hand Jo-Jo a business card.
“Thanks!”
