She wore a floaty kind of dress covered with tiny flowers and a denim jacket. Itwasn’t anything like her normal business clothes, and casual Charlotte was so damn beautiful; I didn’t know how I’d keep my hands off her. I settled—for the moment at least—with twining our fingers together as I led her the short walk to the deli.
“Let me make sure I understand.” She sounded like a prosecutor again.
I had no doubt there was a grilling to follow shortly, but I didn’t care. Not if I could be this close to her when she delivered it. I was also supremely confident that by the time we were finished with our muffuletta adventure, I’d have her curiosity completely engaged, which was the goal. Charlotte was the kind of woman to lean into new experiences, and I intended to give her the full affair.
“You’re in charge of the cooking lessons, and you’ve decided we’re making fancy sandwiches.”
“Not fancy. Delicious. Life changing. Transcendent sandwiches. Just wait. If, by the time we’re finished, you’re disappointed, I’ll come up with another plan and grant a do-over. But you won’t be disappointed.”
Maybe I should have thought this through more carefully. A do-over meant more time with this woman who I couldn’t seem to get out of my head. Not that I was trying all that hard anymore. I liked thinking of her. Wondering what she was doing when I woke up in the morning. Seeing her face when I closed my eyes to sleep at night. I was angling for more Charlotte in my head, not less.
“I’m not sure how that fits within our original parameters,” she said, bumping me with her shoulder.
“We made the rules; we own the interpretation.” I let go of her hand to hold open the door, taking the opportunity to cup her waist as I followed her into the deli.
The tangy aroma of cured meat and spices, layered with the almost musty scent of an array of cheeses, hit me like a complex cocktail. I watched Charlotte draw in a deep breath and smile. The deli wasn’t anything special to look at from a design standpoint, but it was one of the oldest delis in the city and it had, hands down, the best selection and one of the best mortadellas I’d ever tasted.
“Ford! What you doing? Don’t see you in ages, and now twice in one week.”
I’d known the old man behind the display case for as long as I could remember. My grandpapa used to bring me with him on Saturdays to buy salami and soppressata and shoot the shit with the men who used to park themselves at the small sandwich counter. I’d gotten too busy to make it a regular thing, but I wouldn’t mind changing that.
“Where else am I going to go for my mortadella?”
“Smart man,” he said, wiping his hands on the white apron tied around his waist. “Who’s the pretty girl?”
“Charlotte, this is Antoine. He knows everything there is to know about cold cuts. Don’t believe a word he says about anything else. Antoine, this is Charlotte. Behave.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Charlotte hit the older man with a smile that was much closer to the real smiles she gave me than the one she normally used in public. It made me happier than it should have for absolutely no good reason.
“It’s nice to meet you too, but I’m not sure what you’re doing with that one.” He motioned with his head in my direction, and I feigned outrage.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out.” She hit him with another smile, and he beamed back at her.
“Easy, old man, or I’ll take her to the deli across town. I’ve heard good things about their mortadella. It’s got pistachios in it, I think.” I rocked back on my heels, feeling smugger than was justified. It was desperate times. I knew the pistachios comment would get the old man’s back up before he had a chance to venture too far down memory lane and start telling stories of my misbegotten youth.
Beside me, Charlotte glanced back and forth between us, a wicked gleam in her eyes. I had no doubt she’d side with Antoine as soon as an opportunity presented itself.
“Pfft. Pistachios. Please.” He reached into the deli case and hauled out a giant cylinder of meat, much larger than standard bologna size. “Real mortadella is cured pork with black peppercorns and delicious bits of pork fat.”
He wielded a wide flat blade like a paintbrush, shaving off a thin slice of pale-pink meat studded with white cubes of fat. He folded the shaved piece, placing it on the end of the long blade and offered it across the counter to Charlotte. Both of us watched as she took a bite, him presumably to see her reaction to the cold cut and me because I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her. Not when she was enjoying something, the look of pleasure spreading across her beautiful face.
“Oh my God. This is so good.” She let out a small groan of pleasure, and I shifted, reminding myself we were here for the cold cuts and not for me to drool over her. “Why would anyone put pistachios in something this perfect?”
“See?” said Antoine, like he’d brought Charlotte to see me instead of the other way around. “I knew I liked this one. What else can I get for you, belle? Some soppressatamaybe?”
“I’d love that.” Charlotte’s enjoyment was so obviously genuine. I could almost see the old man bloom at her attention. “But maybe next time. Ford is teaching me to make muffuletta. I don’t want to ruin my appetite.”
“Is he now?”
I braced myself for the ribbing I was sure would follow. Antoine made the best muffuletta in the city. The idea of me coming into his deli and presuming to teach Charlotte anything felt too much like the hipster who came into my bar and lectured their dates about herbal-infused spirits, using my cocktails for their seduction plans. Part of me was embarrassed at my hubris; the other part prayed for Antoine’s mercy.
“Well, you’re in good hands.” He shook his head at me, and I knew I’d hear about it later. But for now—at least—he seemed on board. I was going to have to send him a bottle of his favorite Campari and some of the Luxardo cherries as a thank-you when this was over. “You’re going to need the mortadella, capicola, salami, mozzarella, and provolone.”
He set about pulling tubes of salami and big rounds of cheese from the deli case, slicing each in turn and wrapping them in waxed paper bundles.
Charlotte leaned closer, watching him slice the meat and wrap it in brown paper packages while I watched her.
She took in every detail. I had no doubt that if asked to, she could recreate the steps exactly and in perfect order. I imagined that kind of focus was important for her work, but for me, it was another kind of seduction. Sharing something with her that took her concentration. We were bringing the sexy back to deli meat. I stifled a snort, and she turned to look at me, puzzled.
