Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“And that changed,” he said.
“Yes. But the hours are flexible, it’s close to my apartment, and although she is an awful boss, the place is busy and I get to try new things.”
“While she takes all the credit.”
“It is what it is for now. Other bakeries I have interviewed at said a flat no to my side business and wanted regular shifts. Some even pay lower than MaryJo, which I didn’t think was possible. So, I’m putting in my time, paying off my debts, and learning what I can. Or mostly, learning how not to run a business.”
Gladys came over, order pad in hand. “Ready?”
Dante leaned back. “What do you recommend?”
She pursed her lips. “Probably another restaurant.”
Dante began to laugh. I stared at him in wonder. He was gorgeous when he laughed. His eyes crinkled, and the two deep dimples appeared high on his cheeks. His teeth were straight and white, shown off by his wide smile. His humor was infectious, and I found myself laughing with him.
He shut the menu. “Whatever she’s having.”
“Two hot beef sandwiches coming up,” she replied without asking me. I always had the same thing.
She filled his cup and left.
“Is that what you have when you come here?”
“Yes. I love meat, but with my budget, I don’t get it much. They make it all from scratch here, so it’s awesome.”
I shifted in my seat. “How did you know about this diner?”
“Carolina told me.”
I shook my head. “She told you where I like to go and eat when you called her for my name?”
He smiled again. “No, when I spoke to her this afternoon.”
I gaped at him. “You called her again? On her honeymoon? Are you crazy?”
He rubbed his chin, not looking sorry. “She wasn’t as patient this time, but she gave me the name of this diner. Then an earful on privacy and leaving her alone.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I—you—I don’t even know what to say. You have to stop calling her!”
“She said that. I assured her it was the last time. However, I wanted to take you somewhere you would be comfortable. She said you liked it here, called me some names, and told me I owed her another trip or she would tell Paolo, so I agreed.”
“You are totally crazy.”
“Determined, Little Bee. I’m determined.”
“Determined to make me crazy.”
He winked. “Only in the very best way.”
Gladys arrived, sliding the full plates onto the table. I watched him survey the towering sandwich, the steam rising from the gravy. The little paper cup holding the horseradish. The mound of mashed potatoes with the pat of melting butter slipping over the top, and the mixed vegetables piled high. One eyebrow rose, and I expected him to push away the plate. Make some sarcastic remark. But instead, he picked up his utensils and waited until I had done the same.
He cut into his sandwich, and although he eyed it with trepidation, he placed the slice in his mouth and chewed it, looking thoughtful. He met my gaze. “It tastes like a dinner my mother would have made,” he murmured. “When Paolo and I were kids.”
“Is that a good thing?”
He smiled, the look on his face tender. “Very.” He took another bite. “Delicious.”
“I assumed you ate a lot of pasta with a name like Dante. Or Paolo.”
He grinned. “Our mom was half Italian. She chose our names. I’m named after her father. My dad was Canadian-Irish. We ate both. Pasta. Meat and potatoes. Mom was a good cook.”
“I see.”
“I like this. I see why you come here.”
“Oh,” I said.
“You look surprised.”
“I assumed you were too rich to enjoy simple fare like this.”
“We were just middle class growing up. My mom cooked meals every night. Good, simple food. My circumstances have changed now, but I can certainly appreciate good cooking. I’m not a snob, Brianna.”
“Most rich people are.”
“I’m not most rich people.”
“That much is obvious. But you shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.”
He looked thoughtful, then shrugged. “Perhaps not. But you’re here, so I do belong. Now, eat your dinner.”
Surprised by his words and the fact that he’d shared a little something of himself, I dug into my dinner, enjoying it. The meat fell apart in my mouth. The gravy was rich and thick. The potatoes were whipped and light and contained more butter and salt than I would normally eat in a week. He ate with impeccable manners, wiping his mouth, chewing leisurely, enjoying the modest meal.
He took a sip of water, watching me. “You eat slowly,” he observed.
“Yes.”
“You live alone?”
“You didn’t ask Carolina that?” I retorted.
He grinned. “I forgot.”
I had to laugh. He was effortlessly charming. Surprisingly good company. We only chatted about simple things. The weather. The wedding. My surprise he drove an SUV. A red one.
“Easier to find in a row of cars,” he said.