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“Let’s go eat, Ms. Preston. I’ve got just the place in mind.”
He took my hand and we turned to leave the stable. Behind us I heard Charlie mutter something. I couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like, “uppity bitch.” I looked over at Trey, but he was reaching for his phone, having been beeped with an email message. He scanned it, and then shut the phone off. He'd not heard the muttered remark.
CHAPTER 13
“Trey,” I whined as he tugged me across the lawn toward his car, “shouldn’t I change if we're going out for lunch?”
He laughed playfully, displaying his glorious dimple. “It’s just lunch Tylar, you look great,” he said. “Trust me, it’s nothing fancy.” He held open the door for me on the passenger side of his intimidating black sports car. It was impeccably clean inside; I only hoped any horsehair I may have accumulated this afternoon would not mar the immaculate interior. Trey slid into the driver seat, fastening his seat belt and instructing me to do the same.
“Ready baby?” he grinned like a kid showing off his toy.
“Maybe baby,” I responded. “Kick in the afterburners, Sinclair, let’s see what this machine can do.”
That was all the encouragement Trey needed. He fired up the engine, and within seconds we were peeling out onto the highway, my hair blowing in the wind. It truly rode like a dream; a very swift dream as Trey put the car through all of the gears.
“Zero to 60 in three point two seconds,” he bragged.
“There you have it,” I said. “That alone makes the $250K price tag a steal!”
He laughed good-naturedly. “Smart ass,” he teased.
We passed through Bristol where most everything in the small town was closed on this Sunday afternoon. Just outside of town Trey downshifted into the parking lot of a lone brick building with a neon sign in the window blinking “Open.” The door read “Morelli’s Fine Italian Dining.” Trey parked, got out, and opened my door, helping me up from the low-ride seat. As soon as we walked in, the aroma of Italian cuisine enveloped me. I was ravenous. A smiling matron came over to greet us. It was obvious that she knew Trey.
“Signore Sinclair,” she greeted heartily, “it’s nice to see you! How long has it been mio ficco?”
“Saluto, Carmelita!” Trey greeted the woman, embracing her, “Come stai?”
“Equesta la vastra bella moglie?” asked Carmelita.
Is this your beautiful wife?
“No, non ancora forse un giore succedera,” Trey said.
No, not yet, someday maybe.
The restaurant was filled with patrons eating an early Sunday supper. Carmelita led us to a table for two in a quiet area of the restaurant. It was quaint with red and white checkered tablecloths. Soft Italian music played. Trey ordered a bottle of Chianti for us. I raised an eyebrow at him from over my menu.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, smirking, “I just recall how pissed you were with Clint because I was drinking at Luke’s bonfire the night of my…accident.”
“Who said anything about you drinking tonight?” he replied giving me his cocky smile.
“Well, I suppose then that I'm the designated driver?” I inquired sweetly.
“No way, Tylar,” he laughed, “I don’t think you can handle the horsepower.”
“What's good here?” I asked, ignoring the last jab.
“Really there's nothing bad here. I like the baked ziti.”
“That sounds fine to me.”
Trey ordered for both of us: baked ziti and salads. Carmelita brought fresh bread on a cutting board to the table and filled our water goblets. Trey poured two glasses of Chianti, handing me one.
“This is your one and only glass,” he advised. I rolled my eyes mockingly.
“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass and taking a sip. Trey sliced the bread, putting a thick warm slice on a small plate and passing it over to me. “You might want to try this with the house olive oil, it's really good.”
