“He did us a good turn.”
“Please don’t mention it,” I said.
“No, no, go on,” Lexi said, resting her head on a closed fist. “It was a dark and stormy night …”
“Afternoon,” I corrected.
“Right,” Matt said, throwing a towel over his shoulder. “The restaurant was about to go under. It’s my uncle’s place, his pride and joy. Opening a restaurant was always his dream, and hewas so upset when the building owner kept raising rents. Mr. Richmond comes in wearing a long black trench coat.”
I shook my head at the dramatization.
“My whole family is crying. You know Italian Americans, we can’t resist a good world-is-ending panic. Mr. Richmond frowns then says, ‘I’ll save you.’”
“Be still my heart,” Lexi exclaimed.
“Just like that, Mr. Richmond buys the building and the restaurant, and now we run it. Life is good, and my uncle is happy. Mr. Richmond won’t even let us give him free food.”
“Stealing from the restaurant you own is a terrible way to run a business,” I said gruffly.
“Bread basket is on the house,” Matt set the basket of warm bread and a small white plate of herb butter in front of us. “Excuse me, artisanal bakery selection with our house-made herb butter,” he corrected when an older man harrumphed pointedly from the kitchen.
“I never get the bread,” I told him.
“You never get the free bread?” Lexi was appalled. “You mean I could have had free bread and butter this whole time?”
Matt set a toxic-looking cloudy blue concoction in front of Lexi and spooned a dollop of foamy white stuff on top.
“Is that raw egg?”
“Drink your martini.” Lexi patted me on the hand.
“We served these on the Disney cruise, and no one was ever sick. It’s classic to put foamed egg white on cocktails,” she said, taking a sip. “Very popular drink. There’s also a mocktail version.”
She broke off a piece of the bread and swiped it in the butter then smiled at me. “Saving a beloved restaurant. I knew you were a good person.”
She stoked my jaw then leaned in to kiss me.
“I’m not,” I told her. “This is my mother’s favorite place, and she comes here every week. I didn’t want her to lose something that gave her so much happiness.”
“See?” Lexi said softly, squeezing my hand. “Good person.”
She picked up the menu. “I need to decide what to eat. Pasta, the duck, these crab-stuffed tortellini look amazing. What’s your favorite, Grayson?”
“I never eat here, just that one business lunch, and I don’t remember what I had.”
“I see those sad meals your chef prepares for you,” she said. “Baked unseasoned chicken breast, more kale than anyone should be forced to eat.”
“It’s healthy,” I said, breaking off a piece of the bread.
“Dip it in the butter,” Lexi insisted as I lifted my hand. “Dip it.”
I swiped it in the butter.
“We’re ordering the burrata with the winter squash and pesto vinaigrette, the scallops and gnocchi,” Lexi said, running her finger down the menu, “and the truffle risotto. That was amazing the last time you bought it, and I have been praying for your hand to be guided the next time you were at Alessio.”
“You didn’t want to just leave me a note?” I teased, lightly bumping my knee against hers.
“My notes are supposed to brighten your day,” she said primly, “not make selfish requests.”
