CHAPTER NINETEEN
I glance around the restaurant, thinking for at least the third time how it feels like something out of a romantic movie. The lights are low, candles flicker in glass jars on the table, and instrumental music wafts from speakers hidden in the rustic wood rafters above us. Hugh knows the owner of Luigi’s Fine Italian Dining—a restaurant I’d never even heard of, near Santa’s Village—which means we’ve received the royal treatment since our arrival half an hour ago, including a secluded table in a quiet nook.
This place is absolutely incredible, like something out of a dream. There’s just one problem: I haven’t been able to enjoy it because I’ve been crawling out of my skin since we left my apartment.
It started just after we got in Hugh’s car. I felt like I’d been hit with the world’s most sudden cold—scratchy throat, runny nose, watery eyes. I dismissed it, thinking maybe Hugh had been transporting something earlier in the day that I was having an allergic reaction to. By the time we reached the restaurant, my symptoms had waned slightly, but they picked back up again once we were seated.
Talk about shitty timing. I can’t afford to miss work so close to Christmas, and I’d hate to have Hugh simply drop me off after our date. Tonight is the first time in months I’ll have the place to myself, and I want to take advantage. Hugh does have an incredible immune system, though. He says he’s built it up over years of working with children. I saw a kid sneeze on him a few weeks ago and I was sure he’d have the sniffles the next day, yet he was fine.
The restaurant owner’s mother, a stooped old woman with more lines on her face than a roadmap, has been at our table for the last few minutes, talking animatedly to Hugh in a combination of Italian and broken English. She’s completely ignoring me, which is fine, because it means I’ve had a chance to polish off my second glass of prosecco without anyone noticing. Now I’m contemplating shoving one of the long, thin breadsticks down the back of my shirt as a makeshift back scratcher. I’m itchy all over, including my face, especially around my mouth and nose. I don’t think I’m feverish, although my face feels hot.
The owner, whose name is actually Don, not Luigi, appears at our table with another bottle of prosecco. “Leave these two lovebirds to themselves, Mama,” he chastises his mother. “I’ll be bringing out more food in a moment,” he adds to us, giving Hugh and me a nod. He hooks an arm around his mother’s shoulders and leads her away.
Hugh’s attention returns to me. “I realize now I should have thought this through. I wanted to take you somewhere nice, but I didn’t think Don would pull out all the stops and feed us ’til we burst.” He inclines his head toward the platter between us, which holds an assortment of appetizers. It’s apparently the first of many courses to come. So far I’ve tried the bruschetta—the best I’ve ever had—along with a few meatballs and some breaded zucchini. I’ve pretty much been stuffing my face because it temporarily takes my mind off the itching.
“It’s fine,” I assure him, even though I want to cry at the thought of spending the next hour or two here while trying not to scratch myself raw. “This place is beautiful. And the food is unbelievable.” I spear a mini ravioli and shove it my mouth.
Hugh presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “Do you have ants in your pants? You’re awfully squirmy tonight.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but only a sigh comes out. “I think I’m coming down with something. Ever since we left my apartment, I’ve felt like I’m getting a cold. Except it’s a cold on steroids because it’s making me itchy for some reason.”
“I wondered,” he says. “You’re…well, don’t mistake me, you’re exquisite as always, but you…your face is turning red. And a bit splotchy.”
“What?” I drop my fork and cover my face with my hands. “Red and splotchy? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
His eyes are twinkling now, which definitely means he’s trying not to laugh. After a moment of studying me, understanding dawns in his eyes. “Is that sweater wool?”
I blink hard, confused by the non sequitur. “What?”
“Ivy, love, have you ever owned anything wool before? A sweater, a coat, a scarf?” I shake my head and he nods his. “You’re likely allergic.”
“Allergic? To wool? To this sweater?” I groan and drop my head, nearly hitting it on the table. Shit. This beautiful, thoughtful, likely very expensive gift from Celia. I straighten up, brushing my hair back from my face. “It’s fine. I’ll wear something under it next time so it’s not directly touching my skin. Or only wear it when she’s around or when I know it won’t be for long. Or—”
Hugh cuts off my babbling by reaching across the table and gently prying my hands away from where they’re clawing at my neck. “Ivy.”
“Celia can’t know,” I tell him. “Our relationship is so delicate, I don’t want to upset the balance.” I yank my hands away from his and turn to the side to sneeze. “Shit.”
“Celia will understand, Ivy,” Hugh says. “It’s not like either of you could have known you’re allergic to wool. She could likely return it.”
“With my DNA all over it from scratching myself silly?”
His lips twitch. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll go find Don and get the bill so I can take you home.”
“Wait.” I grab his hand when he starts to rise. “Are you wearing anything under your shirt?”
He gives me a strange look before slowly saying, “Yes.”
“Can I have it? If you go into the bathroom and take off your undershirt, then give it to me, I can put it on. I’d hate to leave now. I’ll always wonder what the next course would have been.”
Hugh’s eyes sparkle in the dim light. “Of course. Come on.” We get to our feet and his warm hand settles on the small of my back, making me want to arch into his touch and beg him to scratch my back.
We’ve just reached the hall where the bathrooms are when Don’s mother appears out of nowhere. “Uh uh uh, you two,” she says in her thick Italian accent, waving a crooked finger between us. “No nookie in the bathrooms. Health code violation.”
This night just keeps getting better.
“Don’t worry, Mama Bianchi,” Hugh says, patting her rounded shoulder. “We’re using the restrooms for what they’re intended, and we’ll be back at our table in a minute.”
She gives him a squinty-eyed look before hobbling away. Hugh flashes me a smile and ducks into the men’s room. He returns shortly with a black t-shirt, which he hands to me.
