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“Please do.”
Her smile was blinding. “The stinco d’agnello, brasato di manzo al Chianti, and the lasagna Bolognese. Please bring a couple of extra plates as well so we can share.”
“Great selections.” The server took the menus before walking away.
When she was gone, I pointed out, “That’s three dishes. Not saving room for dessert again tonight?”
“It was a busy day, so I’m starving.” She reached for a piece of bread from the basket between us. “And the lasagna was a last-second addition. I made one for a client yesterday and didn’t get the chance to taste it.”
“That must be hard when you make something you love.”
It was the perfect reply because Celia lit up when she talked about food, sparking a long conversation over the wine and dishes she’d ordered. And it turned out to be a good thing she was in the mood for lasagna because there was barely anything left on the plates when we were done.
I leaned back in my chair. “You keep outdoing yourself.”
“Tell it to the chef. All I did was order.”
“Maybe you didn’t cook.” I reached out to interlace our fingers. “But I’ve eaten here half a dozen times and never enjoyed it as much as tonight.”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t let go of her hand when the server returned to clear the plates. “Would you like dessert?”
“Tiramisu,” she requested. “Two forks, if he behaves.”
“Best behavior over here, remember?”
She looked at me over the last of the Syrah. “You’re doing all right so far.”
“Enough to get the elusive third date?”
She narrowed her eyes, but they held a gleam of humor. “That depends on dessert.”
The tiramisu arrived, and she took the first bite.
“Good?”
“Delicious.” She handed me the other fork. “Try for yourself.”
I took a small bite and agreed, “Very good.”
“Want more?”
I held my fork in midair. “Only if it won’t cost me a third date.”
“Are you free Saturday night?” she asked after taking another bite.
“For you, yes.”
“Then come over for dinner, and you can decide if my tiramisu is better than theirs,” she offered.
“I already know the answer to that.” I scooped some dessert onto my fork. “But I better get another taste to make sure I remember.”
She knocked her fork against mine. “Well played.”
After we finished the tiramisu, I paid and drove her back home.
“Wait,” I murmured when she reached for the car door.
