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I got out of my car and locked it.
The scents of garlic and fresh pasta hit my nose the moment I entered the tiny restaurant. There were only eight tables in the entire place and a small bar that could seat six—if the six people decided to sit really close together, shoulder to shoulder.
Half the tables were full already. Duke was in the corner, tucked back, away from the door. Though it was dim in the restaurant, I’d found him easily.
He slowly rose from his chair as I approached, his gaze raking over me from head to toe. When I was close enough, his hand snaked out to grasp my waist and he pulled me close. I could smell his cologne and it made my head spin with giddiness.
“You look gorgeous,” he said, his voice low. He grasped the back of my neck with his free hand and gave it a little squeeze.
I tilted my head up and received his kiss.
It was a brush of his mouth, unhurried, tender.
A low whimper escaped my lips.
Duke pulled back and I forced my eyes open.
We stared at one another and something began to shift between us. An understanding was developing; a kernel of desire budding into more.
He released me and then helped me with my chair. I raised my brow at him, but that only made him smile.
“What’s good here?” I asked, moving the drippy white wax candle toward the wall.
He reached across the table and grasped my hand in his. “Everything.”
“If I get the spaghetti and meat balls, will youLady and the Trampit with me?” I teased.
“You mean will you start at one end and I’ll start at the other and our lips will meet in the middle?”
“Yeah.”
His thumb skimmed over my knuckles. “Nope. Not gonna happen.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Babe, if we do that, we’re doing it in private because of what it’ll lead to.”
My cheeks flamed and I bit my lip yet it didn’t stop me from smiling.
“I like this,” he said gruffly. “You and me. Having dinner out in a restaurant.”
While we were staring at each other, like we were trying to absorb every little detail, the kitchen door swung open. A rotund older woman with graying brown hair carrying two plates of pasta tromped across the tiny restaurant. She stopped in front of a table—another couple—and plunked the plates down, said something in rapid-fire Italian, and then headed to the bar.
She grabbed two wine glasses and a bottle of wine and marched toward our table. She set the glasses down in front of us and then quickly opened the bottle of wine. She poured a hefty amount into each glass and then placed her hand on her hip, looking from me to Duke.
Suddenly she smiled, leaned over and pinched Duke’s cheek and then gave it a pat. She sailed away, disappearing into the kitchen.
“What just happened?” I asked in confusion as we dropped our linked hands.
“We just ordered.”
“I don’t remember getting a menu.”
“You don’t get a menu here.” He grinned. “You get whatever Mama Leonardi wants to bring you.”
“What if she brings me something I don’t like?”
“Won’t happen,” he said.
