“I’m starving,” she admitted, “and I am also not picky. I will literally eat anything, including butter and sugar.”
“I think for what I have planned later, you might need something a little more substantial than that.”
She raised an eyebrow at my best sexy smile.
“Nothing?” I complained. “Normally, women literally remove all their clothes and faint at my feet when I use that line on them.”
“Guess you’re getting rusty,” Grace said with a small smile. “Besides,” she added, lowering her voice as her bare foot came up to slide up the inseam of my pants to my crotch. “I’m not with you for your smile.”
I sucked in a breath.
“I have to say,” I told her after the waiter had brought us the wine and an overflowing antipasto platter, “I am digging the sexy working-class girl look on you.”
“Sexy?” She laughed, selecting several of the morsels. “I’m in jeans and a polo.”
My eyes flicked from her mouth to her tits to her eyes.
“Still sexy,” I said. “Would definitely bang.”
She ducked her head, smiling.
“Christopher!” the restaurant owner boomed.
I stood up, and the small, round, third-generation Italian man wrapped his arms around me then pulled me down to plant a loud kiss on each of my cheeks.
“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” he said loudly. “We were going to send the search party.”
He glared at me. “You didn’t find another restaurant, did you?”
“Absolutely not!” I said. “But I have had opportunities for a home-cooked meal.” I gestured to Grace.
“You brought a girlfriend! And she’s not like those ditzy trashy girls you brought here before. Welcome!” he said, pulling Grace up into a hug.
“And she looks like she eats!”
I inwardly cringed. I usually avoided bringing any of the women I hooked up with to this restaurant. Antonio had absolutely no filter. The last girl I had brought, he had asked her why she only ate a few bites of her eggplant parmesan. She had said she was watching her weight, and Antonio had replied that she looked like a thirteen-year-old boy. She had forbidden me from ever going to the restaurant. I promptly dumped her. The restaurant was my home away from home. I hoped Grace could take Antonio in stride. But instead of flipping out, she just smiled.
“Best thing about life is food!” she quipped.
“Really,” I said, “the best thing?”
Antonio let out a belly laugh and slapped Grace on the shoulder.
“Ha! She got you! She’s exactly the type of woman we need to take this big lug down a peg!” Antonio said.
“Sorry, Chris.” Grace winked at me. She picked up another of the tiny little mozzarella balls from the antipasto platter. “This is the best mozzarella I have ever eaten.”
“I make it myself!” Antonio boasted, giving her another hug. “Wait until you try the lasagna! In fact”—he grabbed the menus off the table—“I’m just going to cook you a little of everything.”
“Oh,” I said excitedly. “Grace actually has a fantastic lasagna recipe.”
45
Grace
Iam literally going to kill Chris.
“It’s not that good,” I demurred, starting to sweat. I took another gulp of wine. Antonio peered at me. My scalp itched.
