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I can not fall for this man.
“Breathe, Sharky.” He wipes a crumb from the corner of my mouth. “I’m not gonna ask you to go steady tomorrow.”
“I know that!” I wave my half-eaten treat in his direction. “You are probably promised to some princess in the organization who will bat her eyes and agree with everything you say.”
Sitting back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “I hear a hint of jealousy, sweetheart.”
“Then you need to get your hearing checked.” I drop the dog on the plate and wipe my hands. “Thanks for the snack.”
My brain is scrambled, my heart is pinched, and I don’t know how to make sense of the conversation. Standing, I smooth my fitted pencil skirt. “Take care, Enzo.”
Before I can step away, he catches my hand. “Just because it looks impossible doesn’t mean it is.”
I squeeze his hand and then walk away, knowing that some things are exactly what they appear to be.
***
As I push through the doors of my brother’s Bistro, the rich aroma of garlic and simmering tomato sauce envelops me like a warm embrace. The bustling atmosphere and conversation filling the air are the perfect antidote to my mood.
The encounter with Enzo is still pinging around in my mind, and the distraction of working a shift is just what I need.
“Abby!” Maria, one of the waitresses, calls out with a bright smile. “So good to see you! We could use an extra set of hands.”
“Great. I’m ready to pitch in,” I reply, tying my apron around my waist and slipping into the familiar rhythm of the restaurant. The noise fades into the background as I focus on the tasks at hand. The mathematics of it all is soothing – calculating orders, timing dishes, and keeping everything running smoothly.
“Table four wants the carbonara, but no bacon,” another waitress tells me as she rushes past. My fingers dance across the point-of-sale system, making the necessary modifications before sending the order to the kitchen.
“Got it,” I confirm, flashing her a quick smile. It’s been months since I’ve worked a regular shift, but the teamwork among the staff makes it feel like I never left.
“Abby, can you take this to table six?” Marco asks as he slides a steaming plate of lasagna across the counter.
“Of course.” I balance the dish on my arm and weave between tables, delivering it to the man who owns the dry cleaners. “Buon appetito!”
“Thank you, Abby.” His eyes light up as he picks up his fork. “I finally fixed that beaded dress you dropped off, so come by any time this week to pick it up.”
“Perfect.” I squeeze his shoulder and return to the kitchen, giving myself credit for quickly falling back into the routine. The adrenaline from working in a bustling restaurant is nothing compared to the high-stakes poker games I’ve been playing, but there’s a certain comfort in the familiarity of it all.
“Abby, two tiramisus for table eight,” Maria tells me as I pass her. I nod and grab the desserts from the fridge, placing them on a tray before returning to the dining area.
“Here you go, enjoy!” I cheerfully tell the young couple as I set down my brother’s most requested dessert. They both thank me, their eyes never leaving one another.
A momentary stab of sadness slices into my chest. How do people find something like that…and then hold on to it?
Stomping down the melancholy feelings that want to settle in, I look around the busy restaurant. No doubt about it, funding Marco’s dream is one of the best decisions I have ever made. He is a pain-in-the-ass diva on most days, but his talent in the kitchen needs to be shared with the world.
Several hours later, the warm glow of the restaurant lights dim as the last few patrons trickle out, their laughter and happy chatter following them through the door.
“Abby,” Marco calls from across the room, his dark blue eyes meeting mine, a hint of concern etched on his handsome face. “Are you hungry?”
“Am I breathing?” He blesses me with his usual cocky grin, and I set the dishes on the counter then join my brother in the small alcove near the back of the restaurant. “Damn, do you have bad news for me?” I drop into a chair and study my favorite chicken piccata nestled into a mound of mashed potatoes. “This is a bad news meal if ever there was one. Did the freezer go out again?”
“No!” He runs a hand through his thick hair and collapses into a chair. “Did you really stroll around the neighborhood with a mafioso yesterday?”
“I drag my fork through the creamy mashed potatoes and feel my appetite slip away. “It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got all night.” He points his glass of wine toward my plate. “And don’t murder my perfectly creamy mashed potatoes.Manjiare!”
I do as I’m told because my brother gets next-level snippy when his food isn’t eaten. “This is delicious.”
