“So.” I scan the menu when the waitress leaves with our drink orders. “What do you recommend? If this is my introduction to the real thing, I want to do it right.”
“Osso buco. Braised veal shanks in a rich gravy.” The permanent scowl softens, and for half a second, he almost looks... happy?
“Your eyes just lit up.”
“No, they didn’t.”
“They absolutely did. You looked almost giddy for a second there.”
He scowls, but there’s no heat in it. “Order the damn food.”
I order the osso buco. So does he.
The waitress brings wine for me and water for him, along with a basket of bread and breadsticks. I reach for one at the same time Matteo does, and our fingers brush.
The contact zips through me like an electric current. My breath catches. His eyes darken, and for one long, suspended moment, neither of us moves.
Then I grab the breadstick and shove it in my mouth because apparently that’s how I handle sexual tension now.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say around a mouthful of bread.Classy, Sierra. Real classy.
Matteo shrugs. “Not much to tell.”
“Come on. One hobby. Besides fixing motorcycles.”
He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s going to blow me off. But then he says, “I swim. Most mornings.”
I feel like I just won a prize. “I love swimming. I was on the team in high school. Not a star or anything, but I liked it.” I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand. “Now I do classes. Yoga. Pilates. Spin. I like to mix it up.”
“You like trying new things.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “Life’s too short to be bored.”
Dinner arrives, and I take my first bite of the osso buco. The meat is so tender it practically dissolves on my tongue, rich and savory and absolutely nothing like anything I’ve ever microwaved.
“Oh my God,” I moan.
Matteo’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth. His pupils dilate.
I pretend not to notice.
But I notice. I notice the way his throat moves when he swallows. The way his knuckles have gone white around his fork.
We talk while we eat, or rather, I talk and occasionally pry information out of him with the persistence of a dental extraction. He doesn’t have a favorite book or TV show. He’s been to Italy twice.
“Italy.” I sigh. “I’m so jealous. The art, the history, the fashion. And obviously, the food.”
I gesture at my plate, and his smile—small, barely there—does something to my insides.
“Glad you like it,” he says. “Maybe we should have it at the wedding.”
The wedding.
I look down at the ring on my finger. “Oh God. We have to plan an actual wedding, don’t we?”
Before he can answer, a couple approaches our table. The man is tall and dark-haired, with the same dangerous energy as Matteo. The woman is beautiful, her smile warm and genuine.
My body tenses automatically, and I glance at Matteo for confirmation.
