“Well, I have always had people compliment me for the baked goods I would bring to events and such. I really love it, so when I opened a café, I made it a bakery too,” I respond, going into a whole rant about my love for baking.
Our conversation flows easily, with each topic effortlessly leading to the next. I catch Gabriel glancing at me as he drives, his gaze sometimes lingering a moment longer than necessary, and it sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.
“So, where are we going to eat?” I ask as we approach a stoplight.
Gabriel laughs, his eyes sparkling with lust. “Oh, just an old place my family used to go to growing up.”
A few minutes later, we approach the restaurant. Gabriel parks the car with ease, and the engine purrs to a stop. He turns to me and says, “I hope you’re hungry, Bumper.”
He gets out of the car before I can respond. I laugh as he opens the door for me again. “Starving!” I say, stepping out of the car, the crisp air nipping at my skin. I pull my arms tight to my body as a shiver runs down my spine.
“Here, take this,” he says, pulling his coat off and draping it over my shoulders. The fabric envelops me, and I can’t help but smile into the warmth.
“Thank you.”
We enter the restaurant, and the air is filled with the inviting aroma of freshly baked bread, herbs, and sauce surrounds us. The ambiance is warm and intimate. A candle softly flickers at each table.
The host greets us, and he guides us towards a cozy corner booth in the back of the restaurant.
Everything about this place feels like a secret. Like something he’s sharing with me. A piece of his past, now folded into our present.
We sit down, and I scan the menu. Everything seems amazing. We share a few ideas of what we may order, and I get lost in his descriptions of his heritage’s authentic food.
Our server arrives shortly , taking our orders from Gabriel, including a few appetizers to share. “You’ll love the burrata dish,” he says, his eyes lighting up. Gabriel looks at me and I nod, excited to try it.
“We’ll take it, grazie.”
When our appetizers arrive, we dive right in. We share bites of burrata and bruschetta, and as he hands me a piece, our fingers brush for a moment. The simple touch sends a spark through me, and I catch his gaze on mine.
“This is amazing,” I say, savoring the flavors. “You definitely have good taste.”
“I try,” he replies, a playful smile spreading across his face. We both laugh, and I can’t help but notice how easy it is to connect with him. It’s like there is a warmth that feels both comforting and exhilarating.
We move through our main courses, and Gabriel takes time to savor each bite and comment on what he likes about the different flavors and textures. A few times, I comment on how I agree or disagree.
“Okay, so I have to know, for future reference and all. What are your favorite foods?” He asks, leaning back into the booth.
I think for a moment, knowing my answer, but weighing all of my options. “I would have to say definitely white pizza. But with tomatoes, spinach, onions, and ricotta cheese. Besides that, I would say cookie dough.” I respond, nodding my head.
“Alright. I respect your choice of toppings for pizza. Addbacon to that, and it’s perfect in my eyes. But, cookie dough? Isn’t that bad for you?”
I spend the next five minutes explaining how I have been trying to perfect a safe to eat cookie dough since my sophomore year of high school.
Our conversation continues to flow, accentuated by laughter and shared stories. The time flies.
We finish our main courses, and our server returns to offer desserts. Gabriel, already knowing about my sweet tooth, orders a maritozzi and a slice of tiramisu.
The dessert arrives shortly, and it looks absolutely divine. The maritozzi has a golden brown surface gleaming slightly, hinting at the richness of the dough.
Gabriel’s mom makes these homemade and keeps them in his freezer. Since I started nannying Aura, I have eaten my fair share of the stock in the freezer.
There is something about the dessert. Its cream is not overly sweet, but in symphony with the soft bread, the sweetness and texture of it overflows your senses.
Gabriel laughs softly. “I know how much you love your maritozzis, but I promise you, tiramisu in Italy is not the same as it is in the States.”
I nod, taking a forkful of the coffee-soaked cake, and moan in delight.
The creamy mascarpone cheese is rich and smooth, melting in my mouth instantly. The soaked ladyfingers provide a delightful contrast. Their slight bitter taste balances the sweetness perfectly.
