My face was burning. Shane looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
"The usual table," Rosa announced, already leading us toward the back. "And I bring you the good wine. The one I save for very special occasions.”
She deposited us at a corner booth, handed us menus we clearly wouldn't need, and disappeared into the kitchen muttering in Italian.
"Sorry about that," Shane said. His ears were red. "She's... enthusiastic."
"She's wonderful." I was still smiling. "Piccolo?"
"It means 'little one.' She's been calling me that since I was a kid." He shrugged, embarrassed. "I used to be shorter."
His voice softened. "My dad brought my mom here on their first date. They brought me here for every birthday growing up. It was our place,” he said softly.
I watched his face as he talked. The way his eyes went distant as he was remembering.
"After my dad passed, my mom couldn't come back. Too many memories, she said. It hurt too much." He traced a finger along the checkered tablecloth. "But I still come. Rosa always saves me the same booth. It's where... It's where love looked right to me. My parents at this table, holding hands over dessert. Still crazy about each other after forty years."
My throat tightened.
"I've never brought anyone here before," he said. Quiet. Almost offhand, except nothing about it was offhand.
"Never?"
"Never." He met my eyes. "It felt wrong. Bringing someone here who wasn't..." He stopped. Shook his head. "I don't know. It just never felt right."
I didn't know what to say. This man—who could have anyone, who had women throwing themselves at him constantly—had brought me here. The place where love looked right. The place he'd never shared with anyone.
Rosa reappeared with wine and bread and olive oil before I could say anything, and the moment passed. But I felt its weight settle into my chest, warm and terrifying.
We were halfway through our entrees when she appeared.
Mid-twenties. Blonde. The kind of confident that came from never having her beauty questioned.
"Shane Briggs."She put her hand on his shoulder, fingers trailing over the fabric of his shirt. "I thought that was you. We met at the firefighter benefit last spring? I'm Brittany."
Shane's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I remember."
The words landed flat.
"I've been meaning to reach out." She leaned closer, and I caught a wave of expensive perfume. "We should get drinks sometime. Catch up."
She still hadn't looked at me. Not once.
"I'm having dinner," Shane said. His voice was polite, but cool.
He didn't saydate. He didn't call me his girlfriend, didn't make a claim or a declaration.
Friends having dinner together.
And he was keeping his word.
Brittany’s eyes finally flicked to me, dismissed me in a single glance. "I'm sure your friend won't mind if we exchange numbers. I'll be quick."
I watched Shane's face. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He didn’t look at her.
He kept his eyes on me.
