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“Well, I don’t want to make a liar out of you.” Also, sitting in the apartment and stewing didn’t exactly light him with enthusiasm. “You’ve already taken the Fifth once today.”
“Keep this up, and you’ll end up my consigliere.” Nico stuck his head into the closet and came out with a pair of reusable bags. “I need to talk to Quinton about false advertising. This is not a fully stocked kitchen.”
“Maybe not for you, but it works for us common folk. You’re just beyond the rest of us, Nico.”
“Guess I am a bit much.” A flash of emotion crossed Nico’s face, and he twisted away from Luke. “To answer your question, there’s a farmers’ market in South Philly I want to check out. That’s Philly’s Little Italy.”
“Oh.” Maybe stewing in his own shortcomings didn’t sound so bad after all.
Nico read his hesitance and tugged his arm. “C’mon, it won’t be so bad. These things have way more than just produce.”
“Yeah?”
“Totally. And if you’re still disappointed, we can stop by one of the bakeries and I can impress you with my knowledge of Italian pastries.”
That sounded way more appealing to Luke. “Deal.”
Nico
Nico: Ugh! The farmers’ markets here are glorified grocery stores. Are you sure you want to move here?
Elisa: I’m not moving for the food.
Nico: I get that, but love only gets you so far.
Elisa: lol! Whatever you say, boo.
“Grr!” He shoved his phone in his pocket.
“What’s wrong?” Luke asked.
“My know-it-all sister.” She wasn’t really, but talking about being in love was salt in his very fresh wound.
“Did you tell her she should reconsider marriage because the markets are pathetic?”
“I didn’t use the word pathetic.” He feigned interest in an eggplant. “I’m only half kidding. Like so much here, the markets are different. There’s good stuff here, but the atmosphere is more commercial than I’m used to back home.”
“You don’t want to know what I consider a farmers’ market.” Luke raised his eyebrow in challenge.
“On my God! Right.” Nico moved to the next vendor. “So tell me, big country, do they milk the cows and churn the butter on the grounds at your markets?”
“Funny guy.” Luke narrowed his eyes on him, failing to hide his grin. “Like you said, it’s different. Where I live, most of the vendors are the farmers. And it’s outside under a tent.”
“Did you have to work at them?” The image of Luke in overalls with a bit of straw in his mouth had his brain working overtime, and the shivers from their moment earlier flooded back to him.
“Of course. The hired hands help give the family a break.”
“My synapses are going crazy.”
“Huh?”
“You and all those hot farm boys working under a tent. Did you, you know, ever hook up with one of them?”
Luke reddened.
“Okay, so that’s a yes.” Nico’s smile threatened to split his face, and something else threatened to split his shorts. “You totally need to dish.”
“Are you gonna share your bakery hookups?”
Adorable how he tried to deflect it back onto Nico. But not going to work. “Had I any, I would, but I lived in New York City. I didn’t need to hook up with someone who worked for the family.”
“Like there wasn’t anyone who worked there that got you fired up.”
“Different question. And you’re evading. Indulge me with your farm-boy love story.”
Luke’s rosy cheeks deepened to the color of turnips, and how he squirmed. God, Nico so badly wanted to know . . .
“Never mind,” Nico coughed out. “It’s none of my business. How about we get coffee and a pastry. My treat for being such a tool.”
“You’re not a tool.” Luke visibly relaxed. “Coffee sounds good, but you don’t need to pay.”
“It’s no big deal.” Luke’s jaw tightened, and Nico chastised himself for the thoughtless offer. “I mean, no treat, but can I at least demonstrate my pastry expertise?”
“Since I can’t pronounce half of what I saw, that would be great.”
“Deal.” He pointed back the way they’d come. “That bakery on the corner looked promising.”
“It rates the Amato stamp of approval?”
“I said promising.” Nico winked. “Taste will determine if it gets a thumbs-up.”
“Of course.” Luke cheerily thumped Nico on the back, hand lingering long enough that Nico would feel the imprint the rest of the day. “I’ll let you take point.”
The Esposito’s bakery stall looked authentic enough. Three older ladies in white coats used metal cookie sheets to collect orders. Just like the storefront back home.
“What can I get you, hon?” Estelle—according to her name tag—peered at him over tortoise-rimmed glasses.
“Can I get four sfogliatelle, six cannoli, and some pignoli, please?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Sure, hon. Do you want those cannoli filled or to take home?”
“Filled, please. We’ll eat them before they get soggy.”
“Why are you getting so much?” Luke asked.
“Two sfogliatelle and two cannolis are for Mrs. R. She seems to like her sweets.”
