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“Let me walk you to the subway.”
She weaves her fingers through mine and I take it as a promise. I only hope we’ll survive this time.
ChapterSixteen
Gina
Icheck my lipstick in the compact. I’ve changed several times and now I’m thinking the dress is a bit too much. Too suggestive. Too sexy. It’s a royal blue halter dress, tight around my chest and waist and flaring around my legs, falling just above my knees. It’s classically elegant, yet casual enough. Or is it?
I can’t change again since I’m in a town car Massi sent for me, already approaching Manhattan. What’s up with the town cars anyway? I suppose he’s done well enough for himself, and I know his mother has money. Nevertheless, this kind of service is expensive.
I check my appearance again. Jesus, I’ve been as nervous as if I was going on a first date with a stranger. I’m annoyed by how much I want this to go well. It’s like I need to prove to myself I can have this man. Like a good evening with him could negate the past. Erase my self-doubt when it comes to relationships.
It’s been a week since he took me to the Market. Massi has been working every evening and Mila and I are up to our elbows in preparing for the private event.
The energy in the restaurant has shifted into a more collaborative, pleasant atmosphere. The lack of glowering and snarling is conspicuous in the best way.
Massi’s temper still flies high with all the tension and stress of operating the kitchen, especially during rush hours. But he’s making an effort toward the staff. Especially after I requested that Phillip fire two of the least engaged servers.
I quickly realized that one key problem here is that Phillip—with his other business and personal interests—doesn’t spend enough time on the floor to truly see the potential or lack of it in his front-of-house staff.
And Massi, a subscriber to passive aggressive behavior, yells at the bad apples until they fall off naturally. This unhealthy communication balance was creating unnecessary tension for all employees.
Phillip and the staff appreciated my direct approach to people management, leaving everyone more relaxed and more productive. It’s still early days, but we’ve seen increased recognition at several customer review sites, praising Casa Cassi for the ultimate dining experience.
I think everyone believes that it’s my—and Mila’s—contribution that has settled the atmosphere. But I know it has something to do with the dancing and holding hands that happened last week.
I’ve been walking in a daze for the last few days, feeling his burning gaze on me at every opportunity. Every time I looked in Massi’s direction, those dark hooded eyes seared through me, sprouting goosebumps all over my skin.
I don’t think I’ve blushed this much in all my life. It’s quite ridiculous, frankly. I’m thirty-six years old, a twice divorced woman, and I’m on the verge of giggling when in his vicinity. It’s as if we put the past behind us—not a good basis for anything new—and have allowed ourselves to discover something that is familiar, but fresh at the same time.
I know we’re heading toward disaster, but I’m so giddy with anticipation of the good that I stubbornly ignore the bad. The bad that is way too realistic in our scenario.
I will regret it, but I’ve decided to enjoy even the briefest second chance with this man, rather than suffer never seeing, talking, being with him. It’s selfish and self-destructive, but I’m high on Massi.
The car pulls to the curb on the Upper East Side, Central Park just across the street. I look outside where a uniformed doorman stands. A beige carpet leads from the car to the entrance flanked by two large cement flowerpots with mini cedar trees.
“We’re here, ma’am.” The driver turns and smiles at me.
I frown and look at the entrance again. “Are you sure?” Did Massi rent a place for the night with me? Perhaps this is one of those membership-only hotels?
“I’ve been driving Mr. Cassinetti for years now, I’m sure this is where he lives, and he asked me to get you here.”
“Thank you.” I feel like I should say something else, but the doorman pulls the door open, startling me. I mumble my farewells and step outside.
“Welcome, Miss Accardi. My name is George. Mr. Cassinetti is waiting for you upstairs. Let me show you the elevator.”
I smile at him tentatively and look around as though I’ll understand what’s happening by making eye contact with strangers. Strangers wearing designer clothes with pedigree dogs on brand-named leashes. I exhale, stepping inside the marble foyer.
Everything, including the elevator, is wrapped in an understated elegance that shines through the beige and chrome materials. I’m slightly dazzled and have to force myself not to stare or gasp. My heels are inappropriately loud, but George doesn’t cringe, so maybe I’m fine.
He swipes a card and presses a button on the console, nods and steps outside, leaving me alone as the door closes. I was nervous about this dinner date but now I don’t know, I’m half excited and half freaked out. Why didn’t I know Massi was rich? Really rich by the looks of it.
I realize there are no floor numbers blinking above the door as we ascend. There is onlyonebutton. P. Freaking penthouse? A private elevator?
The door opens and that’s when I do gasp. It’s not because I step out into a large open concept living room with polished stone floors and minimalistic yet homey decor. It’s not because of the breathtaking view of Central Park from the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire wall.
It’s the immediate view of the owner himself, casually waiting for me, leaning against a pillar—yes, the room is so huge it needs pillars to support the ceiling—wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. His hair is damp as if he’s just taken a shower, the curls framing his beautiful face. And his feet are bare. For some reason I find that so sexy, my knees buckle.
