Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Even if Luca and I hadn't exactly been having those kinds of conversations yet.
We'd been on the path to having the big talks.
Until the second shipping container, the girls, the accusations, the realizations, and then the subsequent downward spiral emotionally.
I couldn't help but wonder if maybe Antony's presence, and his prying questions, might help act as a springboard, giving us the much-needed spark of conversation.
We needed to talk.
About what was going on.
About its possible expiration date.
About what page we were both on, if we were even in the same book, let alone chapter.
We needed to talk about those things. I needed to know if I was overstaying my welcome, if Luca was expecting me to go back to California, to get back to my life.
I was officially at the point of dreading that.
In such a short amount of time, I had begun to think of Navesink Bank as my home.
And Luca's apartment, in particular.
In Luca's life as well.
We pulled up to Famiglia before I could think of any gentle ways of bringing up the topic of commitments.
Famiglia was a restaurant directly situated over the ocean, held up by massive poles sticking into the ocean floor, supporting the structure, with its long, wrap-round deck that was currently flooded with people.
Luca led me over to the stairs, giving me a moment to gather my skirt, then wrapped his arm through mine to make sure I didn't stumble in the heels that were already hurting my feet.
"Oh wow," I gasped as we stepped inside.
It was the epitome of luxury with dark accents, hints of classy gold—of the non-brassy sort—scattered around.
To the side was a massive solid wood bar with three bartenders behind it, reaching for various bottles on the mirrored and lit back bar without looking.
There were tables of various sizes around the middle and down the other side.
And then toward the very back were several private booths. And by 'private,' I meant they must have been custom made, because I hadn't ever seen anything like them before.
The backs were high and tufted leather, curling around the table like they were going to tell a secret, and the rest of the restaurant wasn't allowed to hear.
"Wow," I repeated, shaking my head a bit.
I had never been a fancy date kind of person. Or, rather, I had never dated men who were fancy date people. Because I was pretty sure every woman liked the idea of genuinely being wined and dined, made to feel special.
There was no denying the warm feeling flooding my chest at being here, beside Luca, his hand at my lower back, guiding me toward the table.
"Wow," I repeated when we sat and were handed menus made of thick paper stock, covered in beautiful script. These were the kinds of menus that had to be recycled every few days. And if that wasn't fancy, I didn't know what was. "When I worked in restaurants, it was part of my job to wipe off the laminated menus every night before I left," I told him, getting a warm smile.
"Did you like serving?"
"I think it is a job everyone should have to do once. It builds character," I added, thinking of all the times I was yelled at, stiffed, had dines and dashes, got groped by managers, got accused of not up-selling enough. "I think the world would be a better place if everyone learned what it is like to have other people be that rude to you. It wasn't all bad, though. I only cried like half of the nights," I added, smiling because the years had eased the sting.
"My father made us all bus and serve here when we first opened. He thought it was impossible to understand the concerns of the staff if we never walked in their shoes."
"Oh, those hideous shoes," I agreed, shaking my head. There was nothing sexy about non-slip shoes, that was for damn sure. "At least your uniforms here are classy," I told him, feeling like every server would approve of the all-black look.
"What did you have to wear? Oh," he said, eyes widening when I felt my face contort into a grimace. "That bad, huh?"
"A mustard yellow and red-piped shirt with red pants."
"Like a giant Sugar Daddy," he said, grinning huge at the mental image. "Do you happen to have any pictures of that?"
"If I do, I need to burn them," I told him, smile still big when a man's torso moved into my peripheral.
"Romy," Antony Grassi greeted me.
There was no mistaking the family resemblance. The height, wide-shouldered, fit body, the handsome face, the dark hair speckled with gray. Antony was what Luca was going to look like in another twenty-five years. And I was totally fine with that.
"Mr. Grassi," I greeted, my tone turning more formal.
"Antony, please. I'm so glad Luca finally brought you here."