“Yeah, Sticks?”
“Can we just be… us?” she asked softly, afraid to break the spell. “Can we just be those two people who like to make cookies together, scratch Mulligan’s belly, or ride a motorcycle at breakneck speeds before shoveling down hashbrown casserole?”
His eyes locked on hers, deep and searching, before he pressed his forehead to hers. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just breathed with her.
“Tate?”
“Sticks,” he breathed, not pulling away or moving, almost like he was trying to connect with her on another level. “I think you are perhaps the best person I have ever met in this world – and I love that you enjoyed those things.”
“I enjoyed them because I was with you,” she admitted softly. “And you look at me like I’m important. It makes me feel good inside.”
“What if…” he began and then shook his head, backing away slightly. “Do you like Italian food?”
“Love it.”
“Good,” he said simply.
She stared at his profile, wondering what he’d been about to say to her – and wondering if she’d done something wrong by suggesting that they just be themselves.
Twenty minutes later, the limousine pulled up on the side of a dark building that had warm yellow lights glittering around it, while crooning Italian music wafted in the air. She saw people in the distance waiting around the front of the building, and for a second, she wondered if they were getting a to-go order and picnicking in the limo.
That would be fine with me, she thought only a split second before Edwin opened the passenger side door, waiting with that silly umbrella again. She glanced at Tate, saw his nod, and got out of the car, smiling at Edwin.
“It’s not going to rain tonight.”
“No, Miss, but it won’t snow on you either – not on my watch,” Edwin promised serenely, but his lips were twitching with barely restrained laughter. Maybe this was how the upper crust traveled?
Tate put a gentle hand on her lower back, ushering her forward as the door beside the fire exit suddenly opened and a man leaned out, waving. Tate urged her forward a little faster as the man pumped his arm, waving harder.
What was going on? She thought silently and emerged into a very busy kitchen that was in the middle of a full-blown rush hour for dinner.
“Heeey-yo, you must be Tate-eh?”
“And you’re Vinny,” Tate said, shaking the large man’s hand as Vinny turned to look at her.
“And you? You’re his sweet Bernadette, eh?” he exclaimed in delight, making a chef’s kiss motion as he puckers at his fingers in the air – and everyone around them shouted ‘Hey!’ at once.
“Oh!” she chuckled nervously and saw Tate’s amused smile, treasuring the way he softly rubbed her shoulder blades through the coat almost affectionately. “Everyone calls me Nettie,” she offered, daintily shaking Vinny’s hand while giving him a weird curtsy. “It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”
“None of that here,” Vinny brushed her off with a wave. “We’re just a bunch of hardworkin’ peoples that love some good Italian food.”
“You’re Italian?”
“I’m a New Yorker with Italian roots, so it’s almost the same thing in my book, eh? Eh?”
Nettie chuckled, marveling at his thick accent as he shuffled her to the side quickly out of the way of a sous-chef who was incredibly busy and moving with purpose. She might actually get ‘mowed down’ here if she stood in the wrong spot, but the smells – oh man, the smells coming from the kitchen around her were worth it.
“Yous two are in here – the house special a’la Vinny,” Vinny exclaimed, once again kissing his fingertips. “You need anything, you gimme a shout and I’ll send my girl back here to get yous-guys orders… okay?”
“Thank you,” they both murmured at the same time, taking a seat at the small private booth that was tucked in a room off to the side.
“Oh, and Bernadette?” Vinny began, turning back to the table in a rush. “Take it from me - you’re gonna want to try the affogato al caffè for dessert. It’s new and Gerry’s wife loves the stuff,” he proclaimed, yanking the velvet curtains shut with a whoosh that caused her to blink as she looked at Tate. A single candle flickered between them, where it was mounted on a raffia-covered bottle with wax dripping down the neck.
“Gerry’s wife?” she asked softly, curious.
Tate smiled tenderly, resting his chin on his knuckles as he gazed at her like she was the Mona Lisa.
“Gerry Thierry – the captain of the Coyotes, remember? His wife is Molly, the physical trainer for the team. He’s the guy I was filling in for that day as the captain. They come here quite a bit and suggested this place when I mentioned that I wanted to treat my girl to someplace nice and romantic.”
