He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the man behind the bar. I took the limoncello and handed it to him. “The place is almost empty. If you get in trouble, I’ll take the blame. Come on, Torre. Don’t make me drink alone.”
Something unspoken must’ve passed between the man behind the bar and Torre, because he set the tray on the table next to us and sat across from me. He was even better looking up close, with ridiculously long lashes curling from those melting brown eyes, and I found myself wondering what his kiss would taste like.
We lifted our glasses and toasted.
“Salute,” he said, took a healthy sip, and licked his lips.
“Are you Italian?” I asked. “Do you live around here?”
“Yes to both. We’re Italian and Irish.”
“We?” God, I hoped it wasn’t one of those stereotypical, large, loud, intrusive Italian families. I’d had enough of that the few times I visited my father at his villa in Tuscany and half the Martinelli clan showed up.
“My younger brother—that’s him behind the counter—and my parents. Well, my mom now. My pops died five years ago.”
“Sorry to hear.” I took a sip of the Strega.
So much talking when all I really wanted was to get naked and sweaty with him. And yet…it was different sitting here with Torre. Peaceful. No hype, no one talking about their house in the Hamptons or whose wedding they’d attended in LA. No one pretending to eat the food because they hadn’t eaten carbs in years.
“So you live around here?” I raised a brow.
He choked on his drink and set the glass on the table. “Asking for an invitation?”
“Are you offering? I know I promised leftovers, but it seems I ate it all. I’m happy to order in breakfast.”
His eyes widened, the laughter booming out from his chest. “Perhaps we should have that drink and see.”
“If you give me my check, we can go sooner rather than later.”
He regarded me steadily, and crazily enough, I wasn’t sure if he’d agree. “Be right back.” Leaving me sipping my drink, Torre disappeared through the swinging doors and returned in two minutes with a leatherette folder holding my receipt. Without looking at the total, I took out my wallet, carefully made sure I used the right card—F. Evans, and slid it inside.
Unsmiling, he took it to the man at the bar, where a quiet conversation was held as my card was swiped. When he returned, he slid the receipt and my card over to me.
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“What? Me paying the bill? I insist.”
He didn’t crack a smile, and that was when I knew I’d lost, but I pretended ignorance and signed the check. I laid a twenty-dollar bill on top of it.
“Okay. Maybe I came on too strong. We can have a drink, and I’ll go home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Downtown,” I said, careful to keep my answer open.
“You’re not going to leave unless I agree to meet you, am I right?”
I grinned.
“All right. Jesus. You’re like a dog with a bone; you don’t let things go.”
You don’t know the half of it. If I had your bone, I wouldn’t let it go so easily.
I slid my card into my wallet and picked up my coat. “Are you ready to leave?” I peered over his shoulder. “I seem to be the last one here. Are you needed to clean up?”
“No. I’m good to go.”
He said good-bye to his brother and picked up his coat. He held the door open for me, and we walked out into the still-cool spring evening. We passed by brownstones with front gardens beginning to blossom with hyacinths, pansies, and other early spring flowers.
