“I’m going to have a stroke if you keep ignoring my advice,” Patrick mumbles on his way to one of the tables.
Adam pulls out a chair two tables over from a very tense-looking Patrick and his unfortunate partner-of-the-day. As I slide into my seat, he leans in and murmurs, “He looks like he’s about five seconds from popping a vein.”
“They’ve been too stressed with everything going on. He sees danger everywhere.”
Adam’s gaze sharpens on the men behind me. “Maybe he’s got a point. We could eat anywhere else.”
Before I can point out he’s usually the laid back one, a guy in a pinstriped suit appears next to us, looming over our table. The huge gold ring on his pinkie catches the dim light as he sizes up my security detail.
The man greets us, the Italian accent heavy-handed. “What you guys want to eat?”
Maybe this is like one of those old-school family restaurants where you don’t get a menu. “Do you have a special of the day?” I venture to ask.
“Mà,” our dandy-looking waiter bellows toward the swinging doors in the back. “Avemu quarchi cosa pi manciari pi sta genti?[1]”
An ancient-looking woman, dressed in black, pops her head out and starts yelling back in Italian.
“We havecaponata e… arancini[2],” he says, waving toward the kitchen, but our input is not required because he continues, “Same for your friends,si?[3]”
We don’t argue.
“Well…this is off to a great start,” Adam snorts, looking at the old photos on the walls and the dried herbs hanging from some of the dark beams framing the bar.
All the ease of the past week evaporates, leaving an awkward silence in its wake.
It doesn’t last long because a minute later, the man returns and places a smaller red satin tablecloth over the white one. Then a rose in a little crystal vase. And a candle. He lights it without a word, the light flickering across his features.
Uneasiness twists in my limbs, the tip of my shoe tapping an uncontrollable rhythm on the ceramic floor.
It’s too romantic.
The suggestion stings like salt in an open wound.
Adam’s grin, however, spreads wider by the second. It helps ease some of the panic, and I slowly relax enough to see the humor in the situation. By the time romantic Italian music starts playing from the speakers, I’m biting my lip until tears sting to suppress the laugh building at the base of my throat. It doesn’t help that Adam is pressing his knuckles against his mouth, breathing slowly through his nose.
I draw in a steadying breath, just enough to speak without choking. “I bet a romantic date wasn’t what you expected out of this lunch.”
“Does it bother you?” Adam asks, his tone cautious, like he’s testing thin ice.
It probably should, given our history. But it feels…good. Almost normal. “Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a date, I’ll take it.”
Something like relief ghosts his features, but I’d be stupid to read anything into it. Even though he’s broken point one of our deal more than once recently.
No touching.
I’d be lying if I said I wanted him to stop.
“Remember when you took me to that fancy restaurant outside the city?” he asks.
I blink, surprised he’d bring that date up. “Yeah, they had incredible duck.”
“I kept using the wrong forks,” he says, letting out a short, bitter laugh. “Kept knocking the glasses over.”
The image of us acting like grown-ups among all the stiff figures around the restaurant still makes my chest warm.
Adam’s gaze drifts to the bar, its shelves lined with different shapes of bottles. “It was so glaringly obvious I wasn’t supposed to be there.”
I frown. What is he talking about? I only remember how hard we tried not to laugh, until my vision blurred from holding it in.
