“Brains and beauty, eh, Micah?” the chef remarks.
Mick beams. “She’s the total package, Art.”
A warm blush slinks up my neck.
After Arturo excuses himself, promising to whip up a tray of antipasti, Jo-Jo leads us to the tiny restaurant’s only booth, located in a corner. Not that we need privacy. It’s just us so far. The threat of the storm must be keeping people at home tonight. People a lot smarter than I am.
Mick waits for me to be seated before removing his jacket and sliding in on the other side. No one does black leather and denim better than he does.
“Dee, would you like to see a wine list or order from the bar?” Jo-Jo asks, uncapping a bottle and pouring sparkling water into our glasses.
Wine would help settle my nerves, but I’d wager that Mick never orders alcohol. No surprise, given his alcoholic father. “Water’s fine, thanks.”
Jo-Jo recites the daily specials from the board and then leaves us alone with the glow of candlelight casting a soft yellow hue and the passionate notes of an aria playing overhead.
Mick leans forward and raises his glass. The movement bunches the muscles beneath his sweater. He turns the simplest action into erotic athleticism.
“A toast,” he says, his dark eyes meeting mine. “To reunions.”
Heart thudding, I clink my glass against his and take a sip.
Mick settles back against the padded wooden booth. “I’ve got the best view in the place.”
I glance outside. It’s just a main street in the center of a small town.
“The view’s not out there, Dee.”
“Oh.” I turn back to find his gaze riveted on my face.
“You’re a natural beauty.” He chuckles. “I can still make you blush.”
Self-consciously, I pick up the menu and pretend to read.
“Everything’s good here,” he remarks easily, taking my subtle hint to drop the subject. “But be forewarned, the pasta portions are huge.”
“I’ll probably eat something light,” I say. My stomach is in turmoil.
“Not me. I’m starving.”
His comment is innocent enough, but I glimpse a wolfish grin above my menu.
Jo-Jo re-appears then to deposit a small wicker basket and a plate of antipasti in front of us. When she takes our order, I choose a daily special, grilled sea bass and fennel. Mick orders a veal chop and pasta with extra-spicyarrabbiatasauce.
As if the man needed to be any hotter.
“Buon appetito!” Jo-Jo wishes us before topping up our waters and leaving us with the appetizer.
Mick appraises the plate of assorted olives, stuffed peppers, and sliced Italian meats. “Mm…this looks good.” He unfolds the linen napkin over the bread basket, releasing the smell of freshly baked bread.
My mouth waters. He lifts the basket in offering. “No, thanks,” I say. Carbohydrates are my weakness. One of many, I think in dismay as I glance across at Mick, who is diving into the food with the hearty appetite I remember he had for everything he enjoyed: writing, making love…
He sinks his straight white teeth into a slice of prosciutto and I feel that bite right below my belly button. With my food issues, I’ve never thought of eating as a sensual act. But there’s something sexy about watching the pleasure in his eyes as he registers the taste, the movement of his mouth as he chews, and the way his throat muscles slide up and down when he swallows.
“Aren’t you going to share this with me?”
His question jerks me out of my daze, but before I can answer, he picks up a hot pepper. It’s red and round like a cherry tomato. “Try this.”
He holds it up to my mouth, baiting me to let down my guard. I hesitate for a second. Then, overruling caution, I part my lips. Mick places the pepper on my tongue. My heartbeat quickens. He slowly withdraws his hand and I close my mouth. I watch him watch my teeth cut through the soft outer layer, coated with olive oil and basil. It tastes sweet with a definite heat, and the inside is filled with goat cheese.
