Page 81 of Terms and Traditions

“We’ll take a lobster ravioli and a Tuscan penne pasta, please.”

Twenty minutes later, the waiter slid both dishes onto the table, and my mouth watered with delight. The smells alone were enough to satisfy me—except I really wanted both.

Nash reached for my hand across the table and offered a quick prayer over our time and our meal. Then he smirked at me. “Ladies first.”

I whimpered, glancing between both plates. How to choose, how to choose?

A laugh tumbled out of Nash. “You’d think I was asking you to pick a favourite child. Here.” He scooped up a forkful of the lobster ravioli. “Taste test.”

I opened my mouth, humming as my lips closed around the deliciousness. The explosion of flavours danced on my tongue, and I groaned, eyes sliding shut in delight. The heartiness of the lobster chunks blended with the creaminess of the mozzarella, perfectly topped with a gorgonzola sauce. “That was beautiful.” I sighed as I swallowed, the taste lingering on my palate. I’d grown up with Nana’s Italian cooking, which was homey comfort food. But this… This was elegant and exquisite. Absolutely divine.

Nash had a forkful of Tuscan penne ready next. And it was heavenly. Creamy with delicious hints of savoury artichoke and fresh bursts of sun-dried tomatoes, soft pasta with goat cheese and wilted spinach.

“You’re really going to make me decide?” I groaned, leaning back in my chair.

“That or we split the plates half and half.”

“I can live with that.” I grinned at him, adjusting the napkin on my lap. “Told you I trusted you. You have good taste.”

“I’m getting the impression you’re a foodie, and I could have put anything in front of you, and you’d have been happy.”

“Sir, how could you say such a thing?” I placed a hand to my chest in mock horror.

We enjoyed our food in comfortable silence for a few minutes, appreciating the skills and blends of the dishes. The soft lighting really set the mood, and the mellow jazz music crooning in the background was a nice touch.

“So, are you ready to tell me about this plan of yours?” Nash asked, handing me the plate of lobster ravioli to finish.

Sliding him the Tuscan penne, I grinned widely. “You sure you’re ready? 'Cuz you’re gonna hate it.”

Nash’s espresso eyes glinted with contentment in the candlelight. “Try me.”

Chapter thirty-seven

Nash

Stephanie was absolutely right. I hated this plan. But I had to hand it to her—it was clever. Brilliant. And maybe a touch insane.

“You think we can move the launch up by that far?” I asked slowly.

She shrugged. “It’s possible. We get a shorter promotional time, but we’re ready, and it gets the software program public.”

“True.” I reclined in my chair. “And the second part of this plan?”

“I stop working for you,” she said bluntly, scooping a mouthful of ravioli into her mouth like she didn’t just drop a bomb.

“No!” I scowled, shooting forward with bullet-speed intensity. “Absolutely not.”

Stephanie chewed faster, shaking a finger telling me to wait. “Hold your horses,” she complained after swallowing. “I did something this morning. Something I should have done a long time ago.” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out her phone, swiping before handing the device to me.

I studied the screen. Was this what I thought it was? A social media page with a picture of Stephanie and a bio describing her as a photographer in the Spokane area. She’d posted a few pictures already, mostly from Liz’s engagement shoot, and my jaw dropped at the number of likes and follows—impressive numbers for a new account. “Steph, this is amazing!”

She blushed rosy pink under the praise. “There’s been a ton of booking requests and… Cal Satterfield got wind of it, and he reposted it. Apparently the name of a photographer coming from a professional athlete holds some weight.”

I chuckled. “Why have famous friends if you can’t toss their names around once in a while?”

“You’re terrible, and I didn’t ask him to do that.” Stephanie smiled wryly. “My money is on Juliet. She’s scary when she turns on her lawyer voice.”

“So you’re gonna do this?” I fiddled with my fork.