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“There’s an adorable shop next door to the cupcake bakery,” Jordan pipes in. “I’m dying to go antiquing.”
I resist an eyeroll. I don’t understand people who use “antique” as a verb. I can’t think of anything more boring than looking at old furniture.
“But first, we’re taking you to dinner tonight,” Gert says. “We also found a great Italian place.”
“Papa Moroni’s?”
“No, this one’s called Mario and Luigi’s.”
“Seriously? Like the Mario Brothers?”
“Yeah, and their Italian subs are to die for. Unless you want something other than Italian.”
“No, Italian sounds great, actually.”
“Perfect. We’re treating you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Are you kidding?” Jordan smiles. “We have to eat, and we know it’s a pain in your butt to have us crashing here. We’re buying you dinner. No arguments.”
I smile. “No arguments, then,” I echo. “But shouldn’t you two be at the hospital?”
“We’ll check in on Ash after dinner.”
“With me in tow?” I ask.
“We won’t be long. You can wait outside the room. But if it bothers you, we’ll just drop you back here first.”
“No,” I say, almost too quickly. “I’ll go back. I still care how she’s doing.”
“Good enough.” Gert gestures to my bedroom. “Now go change out of those uptight office clothes so we can go. I’m starving.”
Mario and Luigi’s is a hole in the wall decorated in early American mob. The lighting is dim for the dinner hour, and Dean Martin croons “That’s Amore” through the sound system. Black-and-white photos of Al Capone, Lucky Luciano, Marilyn Monroe, and Gina Lollobrigida, among others, grace the papered wall. The tables are covered in red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, and fat wine bottles surrounded in straw baskets sit on each one, a candle inserted in each.
The hostess, who looks about twelve and wears denim overalls, leads us to a table by the front window and hands us three menus. “Your server will be with you in a moment.”
“Thanks.” Gert smiles politely and takes her seat.
I sit next to her, and Jordan across from Gert. I grab my menu.
The robust aroma of tomatoes and cheese permeates the place, and my stomach lets out a growl. That’s right. I didn’t have lunch. I went to the hospital to see Ashley.
And to kiss Falcon Bellamy.
“What’s up, Sav?” Gert asks.
“Nothing.”
“You just had the dreamiest look on your face.”
My cheeks warm. “Uh…I’m looking at the menu.”
“Then you’re in love with baked ziti or something,” Jordan giggles. “I agree with Gert. You were far away for a minute.”
Clearly I’m transparent. Just thinking about kissing Falcon Bellamy…
I attempt to laugh it off. “The two of you are in high spirits, considering your bestie is fighting for her life.”
“You heard as well as we did,” Gert says. “She’s going to pull through. And if this gets her to stop drinking and driving, it will have been worth it.”
“I’m just glad the other guy is going to pull through,” Jordan says, and then her eyebrows rise. “Sav, we found out today that the guy she hit is a parole officer.”
I drop my jaw. “Not Michael Barrett.”
“We didn’t get his name,” Gert says. “Who’s Michael Barrett?”
“A parole officer who was in an accident the other night. When I started work yesterday, I got saddled with his workload. We’re terribly understaffed.”
“Wow, what are the odds?” Jordan asks.
Where Ashley is concerned, odds don’t always play a role. But I keep that to myself.
“Right?” I say. “My boss says he’s going to be okay, though.”
Our server—a hottie wearing Levi’s and a white button-down—approaches our table. “Good evening, ladies. I’m Giancarlo. Can I get you something to drink?”
Giancarlo is blond and muscled with searing blue eyes. Normally my type—much more than Falcon Bellamy is. All my exes are blond, but I don’t feel the slightest ripple of attraction to the server.
“I’m driving,” Jordan says, “so no for me. But I’d love a sparkling water.”
“A glass of your house Chianti,” Gert says.
“Same for me.” I smile.
“You got it. I’ll be right back.”
I peruse the menu.
“Lucky Sav,” Jordan says.
I look up. “What?”
“The way he looked at you.”
“Did he?”
I truthfully didn’t notice.
“He’s totally your type too, Sav,” Gert says. “I’d go for it.”
“I didn’t move here to hop in the sack with some local.” I continue scanning the menu.
Spaghetti Bolognese, Eggplant Parmigiana, Lasagna Classico…
In reality, Giancarlo was probably looking at Jordy or Gert. They’re both much more attractive than I am. Gert especially. She was the homecoming queen in college. She’s gorgeous with her dark hair and those eyelashes that are a mile long.
“Shh!” Gert whispers. “Here he comes.”
Giancarlo returns with a bottle of sparking water for Jordan and two goblets of Chianti for Gert and me. “Have you ladies decided on dinner?”
“I’ll have the spaghetti marinara,” Jordan says, “with a side of garlic bread.”
“Excellent choice.” Giancarlo turns to Gert.
“The same. Except make mine garlic cheese bread.”
“Good, and you, pretty lady?” His eyes meet mine.
