She gets another smile from me at that, but our moment is interrupted by Lexi practically dropping our plates on the table. My mom and I pull our hands apart abruptly, and we’re lucky we don’t get burned.
“Hot plate! HOT PLATE!” Alexis yells as she sets them down gracelessly in front of us.
“And what do we have the honor of trying today, dear?” my mom asks her.
Bless her for asking, because I have a feeling if I tried to Lexi would dump that hot plate in my lap. I’m not sure management should be quite so belligerent with customers, and I make a mental note to ask Rory who the owner is so maybe I can pass on an anonymous message to them that they might want to poke their head in once in a while and make sure their new manager is doing okay.
“This is a house-made five-cheese tortellini with local, farm-to-table pesto,” she spouts off from memory. But it’s like the memory pisses her off and she spits out every word.
“Wow, that sounds fabulous!” Mom says.
“I don’t remember seeing that on the menu,” I say, because apparently I am the idiot my brother thinks I am and I forgot how much fun itisn’tto piss off a Weiss woman.
“Don’t. Ask.” Lexi turns her back on us and strides off, when I realize we don’t even have any silverware.
“I’ll grab it,” I whisper to Mom, bolting out of my seat to steal two sets from a table in Wanda’s section.
“Ms. Snow!” I call out to her, waving them so she sees.
Her head bobs knowingly, already moving to replace the utensils. Tossing one onto the table for her, my mom grabs it and we both dig in.
The noises that come from the other side of the booth are ones a son shouldneverhave to hear from his own mother.
Then again, I’m enjoying this dish a little more than maybe I should be in public, myself.
One bite in, a shadow falls across our table. A large presence steps close, looming over us, and we both look up. My neck has to tilt farther back than I’d like to take him all in. A giant man in every sense, this guy is tall, broad, muscular, and got a little padding. Not that I’d say that to his face.
He is, as I’ve heard the girls say, abig boy. He’s also covered in tattoos, down his arms, across his hands and the backs of his fingers, between the first and second knuckles, but also up his neck, over his throat and even his chin. I’d be willing to bet there’s a lot more ink we can’t see beneath his chef’s jacket too. But with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, we can see a lot. And there is alotto see with this man.
“You must be Wilder,” I say, hand out to shake his.
“Sure am!” His voice booms, deep and rich, for someone who looks even younger than me. I do my best not to flinch from his grip, but I think something crunched that shouldn’t have. Flexing my fingers beneath the table after he releases my grip, I try to assess and make sure my hand is still in one piece and I can keep painting as scheduled.
“Wilder Amante, Head Chef. And you are?” Wilder turns to my mother, putting all of his attention on her, and goddammit, I think her eyelids flutter under his charm.
“Virginia Suarez, happily married, thank you for asking.” She displays her left hand, wedding ring prominent, and he lets his head fall for show.
“Had to try. I’ve got a thing for older ladies. Keep this one safe.” Looking at me, he jabs a thumb over his shoulder toward my mom with a wide smile.
“Weston Grady,” I introduce myself, which gets me a thump of his oversized palm on my shoulder, jolting my whole body further down into the booth.
I havezeroidea what to make of this guy.
Looks intimidating as fuck, like a linebacker in an apron, comes off like a giant teddy bear, and hits on my mom all in the span of fifteen seconds.
My brain is confused.
“How are we liking the chef’s special?” he asks, arms extended to his sides.
“Oh, it’s delectable,” my mom says, but I catch her eyes looking at more than the plate of pasta in front of her.
She’s literally had one bite and she didn’t even try the sauce yet, how does she know?
“Not bad,” I tell him, still trying to gauge the town’s newest resident and unwilling to go all in on him yet. My primal instincts say he’s dangerous, that he’s a threat, not to trust the wild smile on his face. Maybe his name suits him.
But my conscience reminds me that Rory knew this guy in New York, at least on a surface level. And she helped get him set up here at the cafe, or maybe it’s a diner? There’s some sort of background check with the New Heights program, I’m sure she told me something about that, she wouldn’t have brought him in if he’s the kind of dangerous the alarm in my brain thinks he is.
Urging my instincts toward what my head is telling me, I decide he’s good enough to be behind the cooking station at the one and only “real” restaurant the Heights has to offer.
