“You look amazing.”
“You, too.”
We stood there for a second, just grinning at each other like complete fools.
“Ready?” I asked.
He grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
717 South, the kind of place you’d miss if you didn’t know to look for it despite being positioned on Howard Avenue, was one of the busiest restaurant and bar spots outside of Ybor. Diego had recommended the place months ago, claiming they served the “best Italian food in Tampa, even if their dishes sound a little quirky.”
“I’ve never been here,” I admitted as we pulled into the parking lot. “But I’ve heard good things.”
“Neither have I,” Finn said. “I don’t get out much. Between the bar and . . . well, the bar.”
“We should fix that.”
“Yeah?” He was smiling. “You planning on taking me out more often?”
“If you’ll let me.”
Finn’s head ducked, and his cheeks colored, though his smile never wavered. “I think I can makeroom in my schedule.”
The restaurant was everything Diego had promised—intimate with warm lighting, exposed brick walls, and small tables that felt private even though the place was packed and everyone could see everyone else.
“Wine?” I asked as the server approached our table.
“Water’s fine for me,” Finn said. “I spend most nights surrounded by alcohol. I need a break.”
We ordered waters—sparkling for me, still for Finn—and flipped open our menus.
A moment later, the server returned with our waters and a basket of bread that smelled like heaven and cheese and garlic had a three-way.
“This is our house focaccia,” she said. “Careful, it’s still hot.”
We both reached for a piece at the same time, our hands brushing. Finn grinned and pulled back, letting me go first. I took a bite.
Oh my God.
It was indeed still warm, the crust crispy, the inside soft and pillowy. It was like someone had taken butter and cheese and herbs and pure joy and maybe a little naked ecstasy and baked them into bread form. Finn was staring at me with wide eyes.
“Is it that good?” he asked. “Youlook like you need to change your underwear.”
I grunted a laugh but didn’t dare stop chewing. “Just try it.”
He took a piece, dipped it into the marinara, then bit into it. His eyes rolled back.
“Oh my God,” he said through the bite. “This should be illegal.”
“Right? It probably is, and we’re about to get arrested.”
“I could eat this entire basket and be happy.”
We demolished three pieces each before the server came back to take our orders.
“I’ll have the chicken,” I said, scanning the menu.
“And for you?” the server asked Finn.
