Chapter Eighteen
“Torre, bro. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s okay. I needed to upgrade anyway.”
I’d spent the better part of the previous evening reassuring Mike and Val that I wasn’t mad at my little niece for destroying my phone. Not that I was thrilled to waste my morning at the Verizon store, but I’d emerged with a brand-new model, which I had to admit was a hell of a lot better than my five-year-old clunker that kept crashing.
Missed calls and texts from Frisco popped up when the phone was configured in the store, and it confused me. Why was he calling when he’d been the one to cancel our plans in the first place? The only possible reason was that he’d probably finished his dinner early and wanted a booty call. I thought about calling him now, but a quick check of my watch showed it to be nine thirty, and I didn’t want to be late to the office on my second day, so I sent him a quick text that my phone had been destroyed and I had to get a new one.
I didn’t expect to hear from him—what I’d learned from the few times I’d spent with Frisco was that he didn’t engage in unnecessary conversation—and I was correct. My messenger remained frustratingly silent, except for the continuing congratulations from advertisers and industry people, perhaps wanting to stay in my good graces and get an in because of my new position atUltimate.
There was also a text from Pete:Babe, heard the news about your mega deal. Always knew you had it in you. I miss you. Let’s get together and talk.
I rolled my eyes, and hurrying down the subway steps, pocketed my phone.
Forty minutes later, I hustled intoUltimate, hoping I wasn’t already behind the eight ball. Edward Harvey might be a nice guy, but I doubted he wanted to hear the story of Tina going potty and dropping my phone in the toilet. Sweat beaded on my forehead, my tie was undone, and my shirt collar opened at the top two buttons. Definitely not correct attire for an executive atUltimate, and I made a quick pit stop in the men’s room to clean up before entering the offices.
“Good morning, Salvatore,” Steph greeted me. “I’ll have your coffee for you in a minute.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it. I already had some.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Edward wasn’t looking for me, was he? I had to get a new phone this morning; that’s what held me up.”
“No. He’s in with Francisco Martinelli.” Her huge blue eyes grew cloudy, and her mouth drooped. “I feel so bad over what happened. I couldn’t believe it when I heard they fired him. He’s so nice and funny.”
“Really?” That didn’t coincide with my opinion of him. “I’ve never met him.”
Steph swiveled her chair around to face me fully, becoming more animated as she spoke. “Francisco likes to pretend he doesn’t care, but when he found out my brother was interested in becoming a chef, he helped him. Paid for his tuition to culinary school and found him a job afterward. Russell owes him so much. Francisco believing in him, and not having the weight of paying off student loans, took away so much stress, he’s lowered his anxiety medication. Francisco is a hero to our family.” She bit her lip. “It’s so unfair that they think he’s harsh. I mean, just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean you should be penalized for it.” Her wide-eyed gaze met mine, and she turned pale. “I’m sorry. I know your blog—”
My smile was reassuring. “It’s okay. I’m going to go inside and get ready for my meeting.”
“Torre?”
I spun around, shocked to see Frisco standing a few doors away from my office, a puzzled expression on his handsome but strained face. “Uh…hi. What’re you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.” His brow arched. “How did you find out where I work—worked?” He peered over my shoulder. “Steph, Russell still likes working at Portale?”
She pinked and tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears. “He loves it, and he’s learning so much from Alfred. He’s always calling to tell us the new additions to the menu and how encouraging everyone’s been to him. Thank you, Francisco.” The phone rang, and she answered it.
My heart plummeted, then began to bang. “Francisco?” I asked through my numbness. “Y-you’re Francisco Martinelli? The reviewer?”
His eyes danced, and with a slightly sheepish expression, he said, “In the flesh. What’re you doing here?” His long, fluid stride brought him next to me, and he murmured, “Where were you last night? I tried to call.”
“M-my niece dropped my phone, and it broke. Had to get a new one and—wait a minute. I’m not processing any of this. You’re Francisco Martinelli the food critic. So that first time you came to Mangia…”
“Was for a review. But when we hooked up after…” His gaze turned heated, and I almost stopped breathing at the desire in those blue eyes. “I figured you’d probably remember the meal I ate, so I came again with my friend Presley. In disguise.”
“So you’re not really Frisco Evans?”
“Well, partly. Frisco’s a nickname. Only my closest friends call me that.” He touched my hair, and my heart pounded in hard thumps. “How did you find me? Never mind that.” A slow, wicked grin curved his lips, leaving no doubt of his intentions. “Come home with me now. I need some consoling after being fired.”
God, how was I supposed to reconcile this sensual, gorgeous, complicated man with the rude, pretentious bastard he presented himself to be online? Only the other night he’d sat next to my niece and played a game with her spaghetti to get her to eat.
“Salvatore?”
Edward’s voice cut into my pondering, and with a start, I took in his gray, pinched appearance and the dark circles under his eyes.
