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“A lot can change in twenty-seven years.”
Brock had wondered about her age, had pegged her for mid to late twenties. Anything younger would have made him feel like a pervert—not that he was interested. He held the door open, and they shuffled inside.
“Ciao, Salvatore,” Erin greeted the mid-fifties Italian man kneading dough behind the counter.
“Bueno sera, Erin. Good to see your pretty face.”
“It’s been too long,” she said.
The exposed brick walls and red and white checkered floors gave the place a coziness Brock hadn’t expected. His stomach grumbled at the heady aroma of yeast and garlic that permeated the air. “Wow, this smells delicious.”
“It is,” Erin confirmed.
“Is that Vito’s kid?” Ben asked Erin.
“I don’t know.” Erin unzipped her coat and faced the counter. “Hey, Sal. Is your dad named Vito?”
“Si, signora. Vito was my dad.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Ben said with a face splitting grin. “I remember when Sal was just a boy.”
Sal dusted his hands and approached the counter. “I’m Salvatore Bonaccorsi. You knew my dad?”
“Not well,” Ben said. “I’m Ben Bartlett and this is my grandson, Brock. I grew up in these parts. Your dad used to pay me and my friends to collect bottles from the alley.”
“That sounds like my dad. God rest his soul.”
“I’m sorry to hear he passed.”
“Going on ten years now.” Sal handed the trio a stack of plastic menus. “Lasagna’s our special tonight. It comes with a salad and Mama’s famous garlic rolls.” He winked affectionately at Erin. “Take a look and let Luca know when you’re ready to order.”
“Thanks, Sal.”
Brock perused the menu. “What’s good?”
“Everything’s good. The lasagna is fantastic, but so is the pizza, and the paninis, and the chicken parmesan.” She rolled her eyes adorably. “Everything.”
They ordered individual meals and drinks and chose a booth along the front window. Before scooting across from them, Erin shimmied the coat off her shoulders. Brock hung it on the nearby hook while discreetly sneaking a look at her figure. She wasn’t built like a teenaged boy or a Hollywood starlet, but somewhere in between. She’d paired a creamy V-neck sweater with perfectly fitted jeans. A couple of slim gold chains drew his eyes to the valley of her chest.
Pawpaw caught him looking and gave him a pointed stare. Brock ignored him and scooted into the booth.
“Y’all look a bit scrunched over there,” Erin said. “Why don’t one of you come sit over here with me?”
Since Brock was on the outside, he stood and took the seat next to Erin. Their legs touched beneath the table, one blue-jeaned pant to another, and neither moved to separate.
“This is such a treat,” Erin said. When she spoke, her scent—something sweet and citrusy—wafted over the pungent scent of Italian herbs and cheese. “I haven’t been downtown since the lighting of the tree.”
“Were you born and raised in Cherry Creek?” Ben asked.
“I was raised in Atlanta where my parents live, but I went to boarding school here as a girl.”
Brock inwardly cringed. Of course she went to boarding school.This is good, he thought. Nothing like a spoiled childhood so different from his own to put the kibosh on his mounting attraction.
“I didn’t know Cherry Creek had a boarding school,” Pawpaw said.
“Cherry Creek Academy. Home of the Mudcats.”
“That must have been hard,” Ben said. “Living away from your parents.”
