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“I guess. It hasn’t all been chocolate-chip cookies and helping old ladies cross the street, you know.”
“I’ll bet.”
“There are some really big pluses to living here rather than in Chicago, especially in my line of work.”
“Such as?”
“Not getting shot at.”
She winced, hating the idea of it. His tone might be light, but his expression was very serious. He had been shot at. Given the crime statistics of her home city, that wasn’t surprising. She even knew a few civilians who’d been shot at and couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a cop in such a dangerous city. She sent up a mental prayer of thanks that he’d gotten out, and not just because she was glad to have met him.
“That’s always a bonus,” she replied, keeping things light, not asking the questions she was dying to ask—namely, who, what, when, where and why. “Is there anything else you enjoy?”
“Well, although I miss them, I do sort of enjoy being fairly sure I’m not going to run into some member of my family every damn time I leave my house.”
She couldn’t contain a small laugh. “Only fairly sure?”
“A posse of them will show up here one of these days. I’m the first Santori to move further than fifty miles away from Chicago.”
“So you have a big family?”
“Enormous.”
She considered that, wondering what it would be like. Being an only child of pretty screwed-up parents, who’d seldom worried about feeding or clothing the one kid they had, she suspected it was a good thing she didn’t have any siblings. Callie was like a sister to her, and Callie’s family, though almost as poor as her own, had provided her with a lot of the love and warmth she’d missed out on at home.
The lack of money made some people desperate and cold, while it made others far more appreciative of the things—and people—they did have. Thankfully, Callie’s folks had been the grateful sort, with hearts big enough to welcome a kid whose parents were not.
Suddenly thinking about Mike’s last name, and remembering a restaurant she’d gone to a couple of times in the city, she asked, “Are you related to the Santoris who own a pizza joint on Taylor Avenue?”
He nodded. “My Uncle Tony and Aunt Rosa founded it. My cousin Tony runs it now, with his wife, Gloria.”
“Great food.”
“I know.” He shook his head mournfully. “I haven’t had a decent slice of pizza since I moved here. The only Italian place on the island is run by a family named Fitzpatrick.”
“Irish-Italian. That’s a good combination, so I hear.” She immediately told herself to forget the fact that she was about seventy-five percent Irish and he looked about as Italian as the Godfather’s Godfather.
“They have corned-beef-and-cabbage calzone on the menu.”
She snorted. Realizing he wasn’t even smiling—and was, in fact, serious, she thought about it and mused, “Actually, that sounds pretty fantastic.”
“That’s it. You’re banned from Italy for life.”
“Dang. And it’s on my bucket list, too.”
“Maybe you just need to learn how to appreciate real Italian food,” he told her, his brown eyes warming. “I’m a great cook.”
Her heart fluttered. To busy her hands, she reached for her cup and toyed with the handle, scraping the tip of her finger across the smooth edge. “Really?”
“My mom regretted not having a daughter to pass her secret recipes on to, so she taught me and both my brothers a few of her specialties.”
Brothers. Plural. More Mikes in the world? Good grief.
“I could...”
“Chief, there you are!”
Lindsey jerked her attention to the barrel-chested man who suddenly appeared beside their small table. She couldn’t help wondering just what Mike had been about to say before they were interrupted. I could...cook for you? Teach you? Give you ten kinds of orgasm in twenty minutes?
She’d never know. And that was just as well. Because as she glanced around the shop, she noticed they were being stared at by everyone in it. She’d prefer to believe it had been the loud proclamation of the man who’d interrupted them that had called the patrons’ attention, but she seriously doubted it. If she could go back in time thirty seconds, she’d bet she would still see those same wide-eyed, titillated faces watching their table.
“I have to talk to you about that no-parking zone out in front of my shop.”
Probably about sixty, the stranger had iron-gray hair, cut military close, and a broad face, half-hidden behind a bushy beard. Why he’d chosen to cut the hair off his head only to grow it on his face, she had no idea, but the result was a little jarring.
