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Seth eventually eases the car to a stop in front of a dimly lit building that resembles a mob front with its shadowy façade and mysterious aura. The parking lot is bustling with cars, their headlights casting long shadows across the gleaming asphalt, and I'm hopeful that this crowd means the food is good.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, voice low.

I lift my chin as my stomach growls, answering for me. “I’m starving.” For food and maybe a taste of Seth.

He likes that answer. I can tell. There’s a pulse in his jaw, a slight tightness in the way his hand clenches the wheel.

He slides out, comes around, and opens my door. When he offers his hand, I take it, finding his warm and solid grip, and I realize I never want to let go.

We stand there for a second, the sun setting fire to the horizon behind him. The wind picks up, whips my curls across my face, and he moves a hand to tuck them back, sending my heart into overdrive.

His fingers brush my cheek, and I want to say something clever, something to take the edge off, but nothing comes.

So, instead, I follow him into the restaurant, pulse hammering, every sense dialed up to eleven.

I don’t know where this is going, but I’m going along for the wild ride.

Inside, Antonio’s is a whirlwind of old-world Italian charm. The walls are packed with black-and-white photos of ancestors who seem as though they could be hiding from the law. Fairy lights are strung across the room, and the scent—garlic and oregano, with a touch of woodsmoke—envelops me, reminding me it’s been hours since I snacked on that granola bar.

Before I can adjust to the mood whiplash, a man the shape and density of a Roman centurion bursts out of the kitchen. He’s got slicked-back hair, gold bracelets crowding one wrist, and a face that is all smile and mustache.

He shouts, “Buona sera, signori!” like we’re part of his family. I half-expect him to kiss both my cheeks, but instead, he just claps Seth on the back so hard the man physically rocks forward. “Welcome in. Please, sit, sit!” Antonio gestures grandly to a cozy corner table, already set with gleaming silverware and a flickering candle. Seth pulls out my chair with a smooth motion, his eyes never leaving mine as I settle into the plush seat.

Antonio beams at us, his charm infectious. “What may I bring you this fine evening?”

Seth glances over at me to ask, “Do you mind if I order for us?”

“Sure.” I’m usually a “choose my own” type of girl, but nothing seems “normal” when I’m with Seth.

He gives me an intimate smile and leans back casually. “Start us off with some bruschetta and a bottle of your best red wine, Antonio.”

I smile, realizing that’s exactly what I would’ve ordered. “Sounds perfect.”

Antonio claps his hands together once before darting off to the kitchen, leaving us in the warm glow of the restaurant. As the chatter of other diners surrounds us, I find myself studying Seth’s profile in the soft light.

“So, is this place a regular haunt for you?” I ask, trying to break the comfortable silence between us.

Seth chuckles, his gaze softening. “I come here every now and then when I need a break from reality. It’s a hidden gem.”

I smile, feeling a flutter of excitement at being included in his secret refuge. “I’m glad you decided to share it with me.”

Our conversation flows effortlessly as we wait for our meal, sharing stories and laughter like old friends catching up after time apart. The bruschetta arrives first, a tantalizing aroma of toasted bread and fresh tomatoes drifting toward us.

Antonio reappears with the bottle of wine, expertly uncorking it and pouring us each a glass with a flourish. We order our main course, and he disappears once more into the bustling kitchen.

The pasta arrives, and it’s nuclear with garlic, the aroma so strong it could kill a vampire at forty paces. My lamb follows, perfectly seared, the scent of rosemary cutting through the haze. I try a bite, and the flavor nearly buckles my knees.

“Holy freaking cow,” I mutter, unable to keep the reverence out of my voice.

Seth grins. “Told you it’s the best.”

We eat, the wine working its way into my bones. My limbs go loose, my thoughts a little blurrier at the edges. I lose track of time until I realize I’m staring at his hands again, the way they cradle the fork, the flex of his forearm when he cuts into the pasta. It’s hypnotic.

He catches my gaze. “You okay?”

I swallow hard. “Sorry. Was just… thinking.”

“About?”

I should lie. It would be safer. But the wine is making me reckless. “What’s happening between us.”

He sets down his fork, leans in, elbows on the table. “We’re getting to know each other, then we’ll move on to the next phase.”

My mouth goes dry. I pick up my wine and sip, but it doesn’t help. “The next phase?”

He sits back and stares into my eyes. “I’m still figuring that out,” he sighs, “but I can’t stop thinking about you, Frankie.” His jaw flexes, like he hates the admission. “You’re already under my skin, so I’m going to do something about it.”

I want to say something witty. Instead, all that comes out is, “Okay.”

He likes that. There’s a slow-burning satisfaction in his expression that turns my insides to mush. He reaches across the table, his fingers lightly stroking the back of my hand, and I forget to breathe.